


Rose-Colored Glasses

by moochymochi



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cigarettes, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Masturbation, Premature Ejaculation, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 00:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 50,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13306818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moochymochi/pseuds/moochymochi
Summary: Patrick is a junior with Pete as his English teacher. They begin to see one another in a new way, though blind to their reasons why.High School AU. Moral dilemma and non-canon age difference. Horny!Patrick and Struggling!Pete.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hot, aww, fuck,” Patrick groaned. From behind the final splash to his face, he fumbled to shut the sink off. He succeeded, and moved to squeegee the drops from his eyelashes. 

The sick feeling hadn’t passed. The cold water was gone. It was time to go to class. If he was going to be _good_ today, which, he supposed, he had already failed at. Stopping to dry-heave and mope in the bathroom easily took up the passing period plus the first few minutes of class. That was fine, he supposed. It hadn’t been intentional. Another tardy on his attendance record. He paused. 

Naturally, he had named it a ‘tardy’ and not an ‘unexcused’. He still wanted to go to sixth period. 

Replacing the woozy, dizzy bullshit in his stomach was nervous flip. It was, like, the sensation he felt when stealing an extra brownie square at midnight or using a sharpie to write obscenities on the stalls behind him. His brain became electric with this idea that he was about to do something he shouldn’t. 

In the hallway, he wiped both hands on the sides of his jeans. The green fabric soaked what lingered and he worried if it would seem as if he had pissed his pants. The overwhelming fear knocked out the rationale that, no, it wouldn’t seem that way because piss doesn’t flow out and upward. At the door, he tugged his jacket further down over his sides. He managed to hold it there while turning the handle for room 710 to step inside. He squinted at the river of fluorescent lights above him. 

“Sorry, I--”

Patrick’s silence came with the rolling motion of Mr. Wentz’s wrist. He knew now he shouldn’t have said anything to begin with and took his seat. The chair squeaked. He shuffled out his composition book and and mechanical pencil. Looking at the whiteboard, he read today’s prompt and avoided that patient stare. Catching it would cause the sickness from earlier to bubble back up. Undoubtedly. He reread the prompt. A fear you face on a daily basis, including ways you have attempted to work past it.

He had no answer for this. At least, not immediately. And for him, that was equivalent to nothing. He had a solid 80% in this class, with no intent to fret about it. English wasn’t a subject he found useful or interesting. Especially not during these Mondays when they were made to scribble any nonsense came to mind with the help of a prompt. No. He preferred band or even history, since they had structure. Structure was such a necessity for him. He had proven to himself over and over and over that he needed to have a solid direction to feel comfortable. Instability was the stuff of nightmares.. Wait! What if he wrote about that? Instability was a fear he faced on a daily basis, vague enough to be deep without actually having to delve down or whatever. He wrote the date at the top of the next blank page.

 _September 3, 2008._

“About two more minutes, guys.”

Patrick slumped. Nevermind, that wasn’t enough time. He would simply suffer the docked points. He glanced toward the front of the room again. Mr. Wentz had moved to stand in the middle. 

Taller than Patrick by a few inches, he was able to hold a sense of authority over the class. There were some teachers in the school who could pass for high schoolers themselves with their shorter height and youthful sense of style. Mr. Wentz wasn’t among them. He stood straight and wore a different colored necktie each day, the beard covering his chin kept trimmed. He always had on a belt and a ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket. His hair was dyed a yellowish blonde, but he maintained it with frequent cuts and pomade. He told the students that this was its natural color, laughing and never expecting anyone to follow suit. He didn’t care. Juniors were a tough crowd.

“All right, let’s move on,” Mr. Wentz called out over the murmur of the class. He folded his arms and gave a keen smile, “I hope we’re ready to review some poetry terms. I am! Well, doesn’t matter really, I get paid either way.”

The class shifted. Last week’s reference sheet on poetry terms was retrieved, hands were raised here and there to answer Mr. Wentz’s requests for examples of the terms. He would nod, perhaps adjust what had been said, then write it on the whiteboard. Within the next half hour, they had created a frankenstein poem containing everything from an assonance to verbal irony. It was odd, possibly funny, and Mr. Wentz called for a volunteer to read it aloud.

Patrick looked away. He hadn’t contributed earlier, making him a prime target. And he had been late! With his mouth covered by one hand, he shut his eyes. His tense posture lessened when he heard another name called. Didn’t matter who, it wasn’t him. He opened his eyes and listened. Students chuckled, and Mr. Wentz’s voice was full of little cheers the entire time. 

“Done! Very nice, I liked it,” Mr. Wentz said, clapping. He rallied for support, and the boy that had read the poem did a dramatic bow. “We’re nearly done, so, let me remind you that there’s tutoring today after school. I’ll be here from three to four. Oh, and hey, and your composition check-up is in a week. Okay?”

“Mr. Wentz?” a girl from the front row asked. Her hand was a perfect line into the air.

“Yes ma’am?”

“Is the composition check-up gonna be twenty points like last time?”

Voices stirred, feet shuffled nearly in unison. The clock claimed it was a minute and a half until the bell.

“Twenty points. It’s always twenty points, guys, come on.”

Patrick ignored this conversation and waited for the bell. He even dared to hover over his chair a bit. He would be back here later, anyway, to apologize for being late. Better that awkward interaction than risking a phone call to Mom and Dad, he had decided. He just didn’t want to apologize in front of other students. The tutoring sessions would be good time to catch Mr. Wentz, since he assumed no one came to them. Yeah, that should work. He bolted with the first chime of the bell.

\---

From across campus, Patrick’s ending period was chemistry in the 200’s building, he was at Mr. Wentz’s door at five minutes past three. The door was cracked by less than an inch. He breathed out, the air a weight on his tongue. He didn’t feel well. It was similar to his urge to dry-heave from earlier, only it was higher. Physically further up his body. It was in his chest and head rather than his stomach. He rested against the wall. The edge of a bulletin board spewing something about Homecoming scratched at the underside of his thighs. 

Voices could be heard within the classroom. It was Mr. Wentz and a student. They were speaking with inflected tones and the tapping noises of fingers on a desk were mixed in. No words could be discerned.

Patrick had never been to tutoring, although he imagined it was what he was hearing. His brow briefly furrowed in disappointment, soon relaxed upon realizing he wouldn’t have to talk to Mr. Wentz with this uneasy feeling. But. What if he suddenly became nauseous? Worse, what if he remained unforgiven for the tardy? Should he walk in or wait until the other student exited?

There were too many questions, and he momentarily bowed to the floor. God, this was so stupid. He turned to stare at the bulletin board. The school was lulling, footsteps taking the shortcut behind the baseball field and cars maneuvering the parking lot. He would have sat there, close to slipping into a stress nap, if he hadn’t heard giggles passing him by. He looked around to notice two cute girls. They hurried on with louder giggles. His face became flushed and he left the building in the opposite direction. 

Pete finished the tutoring session, which, honestly, wasn’t so much tutoring as it was reassuring an overachiever that their essay was going to be fine. He offered several caring shakes of his head with the reminder that extra credit would be available at the end of the quarter to convince her to leave. Behind her at the door, he glanced into the hallway. It was empty.

He returned to his desk and wiggled the computer’s mouse. The screen awoke and showed him a few unread emails from his department head, PTO, and other people he had no interest in. He clicked out and scrolled through his class rosters. Derrick Moore and Patrick Stump. Those two had given him multiple tardies this quarter, the latest for both happening today, and he supposed it was time to call parents. He sighed, one hand reaching for the desk’s phone. The contact information for the two boys was pulled up. Among the parents’ phone numbers, he noticed the home addresses. Particularly Patrick Stump’s.

“Great,” Pete said. He leaned away from the screen.

His own home address was on Junie Avenue, whereas Patrick’s was on Jylon Avenue. A quick mental map revealed that they lived quite close. Only a handful of streets apart. Sharing a neighborhood with a student made him uncomfortable, and he had hoped to be safe in the lower East side of the city. Apparently not, this kid must be a boundary exception. The school was a half hour drive! 

The hand on the phone was removed and folded into his lap with the other. He made a face at the computer screen. He hadn’t lived near a student since he himself was one, completing his final semester at the university. Since his move to the lower East side, he had grown to savor the freedom of being separated from this school; on the weekends, he would jog around the block several times, shirtless and in dorky running shoes, or on Thursday mornings he would drive to the Starbucks across the street for a mocha Frappuccino, which was his motivation to finish strong for the week. He couldn’t risk being seen doing these things by a student. Cruelty was inevitable. 

Leaning once again, this time to knock his head against the whiteboard, he loosened his necktie. His fingers hung at the collar of his dress shirt, the cheap fabric strained. 

No parents were called.

\--- 

Pete stood in his kitchen. His necktie had further unfastened itself between earlier and now, the sloppiness catching his gaze. He had been painfully, extra careful coming home today. Like an idiot, he had kept his sunglasses on during the drive home, despite the overcast sky, and had hustled from his Subaru to his welcome mat. His shoulder bag dropped on the tile rather than hung on its hook. He was distracted.

The refrigerator made a low buzz to signal that it was creating ice. It perked Pete to refocus and he remembered what he was doing.

Fettuccine, a jar of store-bought sauce, garlic, and some chopped portobellos and onions were simmering in a pot. The preparation time was much faster without cutting and cooking any meat. He was vegetarian, at the moment, due to a slight weight gain. He drained the contents, the small kitchen window made foggy. Before plating the dish, he switched on the main lights that extended to the living room, and then flipped on the television. He scooped out a serving and filled a clean glass with sink water, not bothering with ice cubes. Besides, the house was cold. He listened to the television’s announcement of a new sitcom arriving this fall while waiting for the news segment and blowing the excess steam from the pasta.

He ate slowly, in silence. He unbuttoned his pants when he began to bloat.

A wool blanket sat folded on the couch cushion next to Pete. It was his dog’s, though he didn’t really have one. His girlfriend had taken the dog earlier that year, around spring break, if he recalled correctly. She had packed her things, dog riding shotgun, and driven off to her sister’s place. She had never explicitly stated that they were broken up, no texts no calls no emails afterward, either, so he joked that he still had a girlfriend. He wasn’t seeking a relationship, thanks. And that blanket would hold its spot on the couch until both of those bitches came home. At least, that’s what he expected. He might get over it or want to warm his feet with the blanket, though.

His laugh caught in his throat and he choked it down, arms spreading over the back of the couch to grip the leather.

Patrick had a similar pattern of dropping his shit by the door and plopping in front of the television to eat. Alone. However, he chose to retreat to his bedroom after finishing instead of lounging in the den. He didn’t want to have his parents immediately explode on him, in case Mr. Wentz had called their cell phones on the way home. He frowned at the thought.

Without more thinking, he grabbed his iPod from his dresser drawer, Mom insisted it be left at home, and rolled into his bed’s blankets. The earbuds pinched him in his horizontal position, and he had kept on his socks, probably sweaty from today, but he couldn’t be bothered. He was done. William Beckett’s voice filled him at full blast, his eyes automatically training toward the poster of the leader singer. The shiny magazine freebie pictured William with black frames and pouty lips. 

It made Patrick shy. Especially due to this poster being a new addition to his wall, it had been released along with the band’s latest album. Listening to that gorgeous voice melted Monday’s monotone. His exhaustion became a shiver that quickly travelled to his lower spine. He tucked the iPod beside his head and went to undo his jeans. His left hand went to grip the base of his cock, the right scrolling through the album to find a gentler song. He wanted to get off to a steady, almost sensual sound.

He had no trouble getting hard with his sensitive cock. William’s singing, on repeat once he found what he wanted, perked him to full height, and the surrounding blankets were soft enough to tempt dribbles of precum. His hips twitched. He rolled to lay on his back, the strokes remaining in rhythm with the song. 

In his fantasy, he imagined front row seats to the most fantastic The Academy Is… concert. They would be the headliner, the crowd screaming for them with pyrotechnics and huge, lighted screens blasting their logo behind them. He would know every single lyric and would share the microphone during the grand finale. People would cry because they wished to be him. Applause would make it impossible to hear the band’s ‘Thank you all, thank you. Thank you, Patrick’. Security would take him to the tour bus, past the barricades, and personally deliver him to William. A spark igniting their first touch. They would whisper secrets and kiss necks, lips, tongues. Patrick’s mouth wet and thirsty for more, encouraging for a drop to his knees. His own erection tight, too tight--

“ _Sorry, I_ \--!”

Mr. Wentz’s stern expression and rolling wrist, languid and strong, replaced the whole William fantasy. No transition. One mental image slammed into the other with no fucking consideration. 

Patrick was dazed, spilling cum past his closed fist and onto the hem of his jeans.


	2. Chapter 2

Legs crossed, Patrick smushed his cheek against his right hand. He glanced around the classroom. People began to itch, realizing that the bell would ring in a minute or two. Pens clicked, feet scuffed the linoleum floor, whispers of the latest rumors and plans drifted above. Patrick used the extra noise to grunt, a sound that had been stuck his throat for the past half hour.

It wasn’t a complete boner. It was about half-way there, threatening to bounce to its full height if Mr. Wentz kept looking at him. Like that. This steely, almost curious expression that he swore he had never seen before. He loved it, his cock loved it, and he was grateful for his seat being near the front. He leaned in.

Although, Patrick’s brain, that one irrational part, told him that Mr. Wentz knew. He knew about how Patrick had been picturing him all week long. This dirty portrait of his English teacher rolling past his eyelids when he squeezed them shut, cumming in his hand, on the wall of his shower, and in his briefs after he woke up. A tangible lust. He had been dreaming of him, too. Nothing lucid, just flashes, enough for him to feel as if he was going through puberty for the first time all over again. It sucked. But it was hot, and he was fine with admitting that. 

“It’s the weekend! Be safe, don’t be stupid,” Mr. Wentz beamed at the students. He received a few head nods in response. “I’ll see you, oh, and I’ll see your poetry paragraphs, on Monday.”

The students took this for their cue to stand and clamor near the door. Patrick felt his arousal diminish, the previous view blocked, and he shifted. The weekend meant he would have a good amount of free time. 

If he could make that free time better, then he could find some courage. For a moment. He heard the bell.

“.. Mr. Wentz?” Patrick was at the edge of the teacher’s desk. 

“Hi, Patrick, what’s going on?”

“I, well,” he started, “I don’t really get what you’re looking for in the paragraph. We’re supposed to say things in our own words? Right?”

Pete sighed, more sympathetic than annoyed, “Yes, you are. Let me get the assignment and we’ll check it out one more time. Here.”

From his desk’s side drawers, he grabbed a folder and opened it. He needed to poke through it a bit, papers being pulled from a large paperclip.

Patrick stared. At less than a meter away, it was easy to drink in the details. Those eyelashes were the first thing he noticed, long and, he assumed, soft, flitting in concentration. He wanted to smile. Instead, his gaze navigated toward that pair of hands to see clean nails and prominent knuckle bones. He poured the image into his memory, flooding it for later when he was alone. He could already guess that tonight’s fantasies would involve being in the grace of that hold. 

“I saw you today.”

Ripped from his thoughts, Patrick replied, “Huh? Wait, what?”

“I saw you daydreaming today. You need to keep your head out of the clouds, I can’t re-explain every single thing in here. So listen up,” Pete said. He tapped the paper for emphasis.

“Yeah, my fault.”

Pete went over what needed to be done, and handed Patrick an extra copy of the assignment. Just in case. His pad of late passes was soon in his hand.

“Mr. Wentz?” Patrick ventured. He wanted to continue ogling. Not much came to mind, so he attempted the second most overused topic after the weather, “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

“Ah, no, not really. I’m more of a homebody these days,” Pete said, his voice careful to not be too casual.

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

Patrick hadn’t planned this far. He figured it was worth it, since he had extra seconds to stare. And he couldn’t tell whether or not he had imagined the desk shrinking between them. Nervously, he pushed both hands into his jacket pockets, glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. He shrugged. 

“Nothing interesting, I can tell you that,” Pete affirmed. He read the time on the computer screen and wrote it on the pass.

“You’d love it in my neighborhood. Nothing ever happens there,” Patrick said, reaching for the pass. The paper crinkled in his sweaty palm. He was forced to hover, the conversation taking a pause.

Pete hesitated, “Yes, that’s… my type of neighborhood. You're all set, have a nice weekend. Get that paragraph done, okay?”

“I will. Bye.”

Pete waved and sat down once he was alone. This was he prep period. He wasted it by wondering why the hell that interaction gave him such a wave of suspicion. Patrick was a student who had never approached him prior to today, and he happened to make comments about his neighborhood? That was a heavy coincidence. 

Had he been seen?

\---

“Geez, that wasn’t even worth the effort,” Patrick teased. He dodged a kick and moved to walk on the building’s curb. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he continued teasing, “Boooo! I want a refund!”

“Then good thing we didn’t pay, asshole.”

“So ungrateful!”

Robbie and Liam laughed, voices muffled on the cement walls. They jumped to walk ahead of Patrick.

Their mission of sneaking themselves and Patrick into the only R rated movie at the theater, _Death Spiral 2_ , had been a partial success. No one had caught them - quite a feat considering the kid could pass for a preteen - with a trio of seats snagged at the back. The horror flick, unfortunately, was poorly acted and failed to frighten. 

“Can we go eat?” Patrick asked. He was pressed to the wall, tufts of hair dirtied from the contact. Buttered popcorn could be smelled from where they lingered at the rear of the theater. Probably due to the dumpsters out here, but still. Having to lie about today’s plans this morning to his parents, he had forgotten breakfast.

“You got money?” Liam chimed sarcastically. He tugged on his bill of his Cubs cap, pretending to think.

“Nope. Broker than your daddy’s condom,” Robbie said.

Patrick sighed, “Fine, I’ll wait ‘til I’m home. Next time let’s steal some food.”

“Sure, Stump,” Robbie said. “We’ll do whatever you want. You seem to be able to run this shit.”

Again, they were laughing. Robbie and Liam didn’t mean much harm, truly, they were Patrick’s mentors, in this weird way. They enjoyed being tough on him and demonstrating how to not give too many fucks. Currently seniors at the same high school, they had met each other in a remedial gym class last year, where Patrick first began to learn the techniques of a future apathist. The three of them hung out on the weekends, mostly, since they were in different grade levels. 

Apathy aside, Patrick had slowly become more comfortable with being rebellious. Shoplifting candy bars, graffiti in the school bathrooms, flipping off pedestrians while in the car, and, of course, movies that hadn’t been paid for. Fun stuff. Being rebellious was what Patrick craved, and he needed the little push that Robbie and Liam provided. To do it on his own would be difficult. And depressing, he assumed.

“I’ve got smokes, that’s pretty close to a meal,” Liam offered, shaking a bundle of cigarettes from a carton. “Try not to cough on us.”

Patrick frowned. Cigarettes weren’t a favorite of his, the burning and the taste preventing more than a couple puffs. Regardless, he accepted what was offered, saying, “I’ll probably use this later. It takes the boredom away at home.”

Liam encouraged him, “I only got four left. Keep the carton and we’ll have these two.”

Robbie brought out a lighter. He watched Liam toss the cigarettes to a bumbling Patrick, the flame a soft glow above his fist.

Wary of the smoke, Patrick watched the pair inhale and exhale like living chimneys. He absently checked his cell phone for the time, a quarter past five, and wondered if they were going to find additional trouble after dark. He hoped the answer was a ‘yes’ - the darkness made him feel less guilty and more adventurous. Willing to misbehave.

He thought of Mr. Wentz.

“Did either of you have Wentz last year?” Patrick asked. He pressed further into the wall behind him.

“What, for history?” Robbie blinked.

“No, for English.”

“Oh, duh, uh huh. I did.”

Patrick, thankful that he had been bullied into revealing his tastes, told them, “I swear he was making eyes at me yesterday. It was kinda cool.”

Robbie brightened, “Stump! You perv, of course you’d think that. Did you offer to suck his dick for extra credit?”

“Maybe!”

“Whoa, and I thought I was bad for dating that freshman! You're over here aiming to be jail bait,” Robbie said. He pointed at the younger boy with the lit end of his cigarette. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Rolling his shoulders, Patrick spoke above Liam’s cooing, “Die, I guess? He’s way hotter than me.”

“Plus, I doubt he’s into high schoolers,” Liam said.

“Mm. He’s definitely a good-looking guy,” Robbie said, his hooked nose sniffling. Personally, he had experienced bisexual tendencies, and did in fact remember having fantasies sparked by the way Mr. Wentz stroked his beard. “I don’t even know how you’d try that. Hey! Did you know he has tattoos?”

Patrick gasped, “He does? Where?”

“On his chest and arms, could be more elsewhere. He keeps it hidden with the way he dresses, but I’ve seen it.”

Patrick’s lips remained parted with surprise.

“Robbie, gross,” Liam said. 

“I figured he’d be interested, ha ha.”

Tattoos, where they could be hiding and what they depicted, consumed Patrick until his head hit the pillow that night. He needed Robbie to be telling the truth.

\---

Pete unlocked his front door. It was Sunday morning, and the weather was sunny with a soft breeze. He didn’t want to waste this opportunity. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to run due to the cold. 

The soles of his shoes touched the porch and he breathed in. He was being stupid. 

“It’ll be quick.”

A fresh route was created in Pete’s mind, nowhere near Patrick’s home, and he scanned the street because his anxiety made him. No one in sight. Obviously. He tugged at the hem of his ratty Metallica tee and popped in his earbuds. 

He eased into a power walk, his feet stepping lightly. Around the corner of his street, he changed to a jog with his line of vision straight forward. There really wasn’t a need to be moving cautiously or trying to notice any familiar faces, no, everything was normal. Confidence swelled within. This was where he lived, and damn it, not being able to go do his weekend exercise would be unfair. He increased the volume of his music while mouthing lyrics.

Despite the Metallica tee, he was listening to a band called blink-182. Rock music from the 70’s and 80’s was his preference, however, he had been exploring this pop punk genre lately. It was catchy and powerful, and, to be perfectly honest, it made him feel younger. He had considered attending concerts for these new bands, and ultimately decided that he would feel out of place. Colleagues at the school had told him that, without the beard, he could pass for a teenager rather than a man close to thirty, which was definitely a compliment. He was always able to remain gracious. Yet his gut instinct won, and he hadn’t to seen a pop punk band live.

The route Pete was on included a small park. It was grassy and had a sugar maple grove on the West side, the low, dense leaves giving it potential for mischief. 

Patrick exited the grove. He had finally managed to light one of the cigarettes, holding it at the edge of his lips. He was simply allowing it to smolder. His friends weren’t there to harass him into deep drags, content to first master the cool appearance. He wished his cell phone had a camera, a better profile photo for Myspace would be great. 

He plucked the cigarette and held it away from his face to inspect. Ashes fluttered, his body involuntarily moving toward the park’s sidewalk.

“Oh my God.”

An underaged student smoking at the mercy of his teacher, who was in workout clothes that included a layer of sweat. Strangely, each had been in the other’s subconscious. 

Pete halted, headphones removed and jaw slack. He said the first thing that hit him, “Put that out. Right now.”

“Oh my God,” Patrick repeated. He immediately dropped the cigarette and stomped it to bits. “I, I’m sorry.”

“What are you--?”

“Mr. Wentz, I--”

Pete put on his classroom tone, clear and cordial, “I see you’re out for a Sunday stroll, as well. We’re not going to be messing with more cigarettes after we part ways? Can you assure me of that?”

“Sure, I can, err, assure you. Sorry,” Patrick babbled in response. He didn’t know what to do. Holy fuck.

Mr. Wentz was in streetwear, exposing those tattoos Robbie had mentioned. No necktie or ballpoint pen, instead earbuds and a trail of chest hair. Had it not been for the shock of being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, all the blood would be rushing to his cock and not his cheeks. He was redder than a cherry pie splattered on a firetruck.

“I don’t want to have to worry about seeing one of my students smoking on my morning jog.”

Patrick nodded dumbly.

“Does that make sense?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Moving his right hand to touch the shorter boy’s shoulder, Pete held a gentle expression. He understood that his previous suspicions of Patrick knowing they lived in the same neighborhood were unreasonable. And he was trusting that this meant they they were on even terms; he himself wouldn’t call Patrick’s parents, and Patrick wouldn’t gossip to his classmates regarding his tattoos, suddenly such a blaring item he wished to hide, or exercise outfit. This situation could be neutralized. 

“Are you going to be in school on Monday? Or will you be too embarrassed?” Pete asked, certainly not about to admit his personal embarrassment. 

Patrick knew what he was supposed to say, and bowed his head, “I’ll be in school. I’m sorry again, Mr. Wentz.”

“All right,” Pete said, removing his hand and missing the whimper that went with it. He sidestepped. “Stay in school, don’t do drugs, et cetera.”

Patrick stood in his wake. A thousand questions sprang forth. Did Mr. Wentz actually live nearby? Could he tell that he was hiding the final cigarette? Were his parents going to be called? How was he going to function in class? Was this a divine punishment for masturbating in excess?

Had Mr. Wentz been listening to blink-182?


	3. Chapter 3

Pete swallowed his final bite of breakfast and moved to place the bowl and spoon in the sink. Corn flakes and almond milk splashed out as he rinsed it, his hands washed with the soap. The clock above the oven told him he had less than an hour to get to work. He had been sluggish lately. He had been weird.

At the front door, he completed his usual routine of pulling on his shoes, adjusting the strap of his shoulder bag, and tightening his necktie. One, two, three - shoes, bag, necktie. It felt good. Stable.

He got in his car to drive to school with a lock on the fifty miles per hour speed limit, despite the consequence that he wouldn’t have time to make copies this morning. His students would be fine to simply do writing exercises on notebook paper. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Pete whispered, a sharp right turn causing him to swing out into the next lane. There was a honk.

Seeing Patrick Stump on that Sunday run, a student, wide-eyed with a fucking cigarette, had been such a punch to the gut. Two punches, honestly. And he had been debating to go out that morning, too! Add a divine cosmic slap to that double shot. The calm demeanor he had displayed was his own way of panicking. It’s how he had survived his first few months of professional teaching.

Even if he had chosen to call the kid’s parents, he knew that wouldn’t bring any sort of peace. The strange little situation of them being neighbors had been acknowledged. Worse, the indecency brought on by his workout clothes had been mixed in. He hung his head at the following red light. Oil from his forehead created a smudge on the steering wheel’s leather.

Weird.

Maybe it would have been less painful if he had been jogging with someone else? Perhaps a friend or girlfriend? Or if there hadn’t been any smoking involved? Not that he was going to lord a moral high ground over Patrick.. He had participated in his fair share of drug-related nonsense in college. No cigarettes, though. Nicotine stirred nausea. He had preferred things from the earth like weed or mushrooms. For a moment, he was reliving a blissful memory from his sophomore year. Then he reached the school’s main intersection, ‘Newfound Chicago Public High’ visible in its matte black lettering.

Pete made a pit stop at the teacher’s lounge. He wasn’t ready to step foot in his classroom. He had parked in the further end of the lot and power walked to the lounge straightaway. Thoughts of the past weekend continued to steam up his mind’s mirror. 

Inside, he was alone. Of course he was, it was a quarter to eight, first period was soon to begin, the hum of the vending machine like an eclectic coworker. He glanced at it.

Several coins were dug from his pocket, and he slotted them into the vending machine. The selection buttons illuminated once a dollar’s worth had been entered. He brushed his fingers over them, realized they couldn't be very clean, and stopped. He tapped the button for a Coke. Hopefully its fizzy sweetness would fight off his fuzzy bitterness. A beep sounded, his drink falling to the gap at the bottom. Except, it appeared to have gotten stuck. Bent down, he could see that the can had fallen diagonally and was wedged in the crevice where it was supposed to drop from. 

Pete tried to retrieve the Coke by pushing his hand into the gap and toward the crevice. No, it wouldn’t fit. Still, he tried again. He scowled, coming up empty and with tiny abrasions on his knuckles. He stood and knocked the machine with his foot. The screen near the coin slot displayed an error message, a message requesting money quickly replacing it. Another kick was given, this time harder. Nothing happened. He swung his leg backward to build momentum. His shoulder was held by an unknown grip and he faltered, a breath released. In a lick of hysteria, he thought he would find Patrick there.

“Good morning, Peter,” Mr. Bremont said, a pause taken to lift his grip. “Are we having trouble? This thing is old, you know.”

Pete was startled, answering, “G’morning, yes, my drink got stuck. Just wanted a caffeine fix.”

Also from the English department, Mr. Bremont taught the underclassmen. He saw Pete often enough, and was surprised to watch him kick and be so transparent with anger. It was concerning.

“How about I get a drink, too? It should bump yours down,” Mr. Bremont said. He took out his wallet.

Pete nodded.

The vending machine obliged, both cans promptly where they should be. The older teacher took his Brisk Iced Tea and passed the Coke to Pete. 

“Rough week?” Mr. Bremont asked. It was small talk.

“It is.”

“Those juniors starting to get senioritis?”

Pete’s nostrils flared with false thoughtfulness. A replay of his encounter this weekend happened behind his murky brown eyes. 

“They’ve been troublesome, yes. But I can handle it.”

\---

A soft spring to his step, Patrick exited the main building from the East hall. He had waited for the immediate afterschool crowds to thin before heading toward the driver’s education area. The circular section of asphalt was typically empty, its orange traffic cones arranged in different patterns each week. It’s where he would meet Liam and Robbie.

“There he is!”

A wolf whistle accompanied the shout.

“Shhh!” Patrick bared his teeth at them. He hustled to move closer, not wanting their voices to carry. He had texted them the story of his weekend. “Shut up! I shouldn’t tell you freaks anything.”

“No, no, you really should. It’s great,” Robbie chriped, patting the shorter boy on the head. He laughed.

Liam, finishing his laughs, agreed, “Yeah, this is crazy. You should make this into, I dunno, a daytime soap opera.”

Patrick huffed, “No thanks.”

“What are you gonna do? Nothing?”

“Uh.. I guess?”

Robbie and Liam exchanged smirks. Both were taller than Patrick, effortlessly towering over him for a bit of coercion. Their favorite.

“Don’t you want to see him again?” Liam asked. Dramatically, he rocked his body and faked a moan. “Get a better look at those tattoos and chest hair?”

“I didn’t say he had chest hair!”

While Liam had an immature fit of giggles, Robbie said, “I’m free this Friday night. Maybe we could get into some shit?”

“What?” Patrick was confused. He was wary of a teacher moving along the adjacent sidewalk.

“Yeah, we could go spy on him. Get a good view.”

“Oh, God no, I don’t even know where he lives.”

Patrick had been utterly stunned after the incident. Tased from head to toe. He hadn’t seen where Mr. Wentz had come from, or where he went. Clueless as to what part of the neighborhood he might live in. He had made a direct path home, gaze aimed at his feet in a shameful adrenaline. Now figuring out which house was his would be a challenge, and definitely high risk. Though part of his brain reminded him that it would be high reward. Probably. There were other factors, but he had been lucky so far. His mortified expression lessened.

Robbie continued, “I’ll figure out where he lives, leave it to me. So, it’s a date?”

“Gay,” Liam said. Giggles aside, he was kicking at a split in the sidewalk. “I’ve gotta watch the pipsqueak on Friday. My mom’s going to group therapy, I’ll be playing babysitter.”

“Isn’t she eleven now? Can’t she watch herself?” Patrick wondered.

“No, my mom found out about that fight I was in, this is my punishment. If I ditch, I think she might kick me out for real.”

“Hey, I’ll be babysitting, too. We’ll have a blast, and I’ll have him in bed by midnight,” Robbie said, nudging Patrick in his belly. It was sort of lame that they wouldn’t have their normal trio. But they would be able to sneak around more easily, that was for sure. Liam was the loudest and had the highest potential to be an idiot. Case in point: getting into that fight. 

Gravity was weighing into Patrick’s jaw. No objections given. He wanted to cut this plan short, he didn’t know how he would manage it, despite Robbie’s confidence and company. Rebellion was fun when it was nonspecific. To pursue Mr. Wentz at home, to spy for personal pleasure was terrifying. His mouth opened, a protest lost on his chapped lips. 

“Text me once you’re home from school on Friday. I’ll come get you later. Oh, and my camera! I’ll bring that,” Robbie said. He was bouncing. One heel switched with the other, his dusty sneakers creating a beat.

“Your camera?”

“Seriously, c’mon, be cool.”

Liam grinned, “You’ll have to tell me all about this later. Don’t get arrested, ha ha.”

Patrick tensed at the possibility of trouble with the law. Wait, would they be trespassing? Stalking? He swayed, rubbing his eyes in frustration.

“We won’t get arrested,” Robbie said. “We’re not the ones into violence. How’d that fight happen, anyway?”

“Some pussy called me a pussy.”

\---

Patrick was impressed. However stomach-churningly, heart-bangingly anxious he was, Robbie’s handiwork had him impressed. He squinted at him, a smear on his glasses adding to the weak visibility from the setting sun.

“You.. You stole this?” Patrick questioned.

“No, no,” Robbie said, “I didn’t steal it. I copied it from the principal’s directory yesterday. I was getting yelled at for whatever, and he had to go talk to Ms. Hesch. I found Mr. Wentz’s at the back. Did you know his middle name is Lewis?”

Patrick hesitated. In his hand, he held the index card where Mr. Wentz’s alleged address had been printed in Robbie’s blocky handwriting. It was close to his parents’ house. Only a few streets over. His tone was curious, “How are we doing this?”

“Quietly and without the flash on.” Robbie wiggled his camera in order to stress his words. It was digital, and hung around his neck with a gray lanyard. In case of photo opportunities, their cell phones wouldn’t be enough. “Let’s go scope the place out.”

Junie Avenue was a long street, and they needed a solid fifteen minutes until locating their destination. It was in the middle, lofty wooden fences decorating the neighboring homes. Heaven forbid they had to make a break for it. They would be simultaneously exposed and trapped. Street lamps glowed in the air, the scent of wet brick reminiscing of an afternoon drizzle.

“I don’t see any lights,” Patrick said. They had triple checked the address and, yes, this should be Mr. Wentz’s house. The garage was shut, all windows lifeless. 

“We could wait?” Robbie offered.

“Uh, should we?”

“Fuck, lights!”

Robbie yanked them to a squatting position, their backs finding a wall. They were crushed against the stucco of a neighbor’s fence with hedges on each side, directly across from the house. It had suddenly become occupied. 

Patrick had tugged his hoodie over his face, voice muffled, “Is he there? Can he see us?”

“No, we’re out of sight. I think he’s there, though. Someone’s moving around by the front window,” Robbie said.

“Let’s stop. I can’t--”

“ _Stump_!”

“ _Robbie_.”

“We’re already here. This is gold.”

Their path was a straightshot, Robbie leading with Patrick clinging at the rear. It would have been hilarious in different circumstances. In the yard, they dipped to their elbows and knees for an army crawl. It was uncomfortable. They kept low and propped themselves at the line of shrubs beneath the window, necks craned for a peek. The living room was theirs to behold. 

Mr. Wentz stood at the television. God, they had gotten the right house! He appeared to be trying to change the channel, repeatedly tapping his remote and aiming it at the box. Hips jutted in focus. A second later, he had abandoned his attempts, instead switching the channel manually. He returned to the couch. 

Patrick realized two things. Shorts and no girl.

Nested among the cushions, Mr. Wentz was slumped with his legs perched on the coffee table. The gym shorts he wore, faded and susceptible to sliding, outlined Patrick’s thirstiest desires. He could see a bulge. There was a cock and balls under those shorts and he had a pretty good idea of their size. He definitely hadn’t spotted that last weekend. It took serious willpower to not daydream of how eagerly he would slurp that bulge. Make it hard and taste its cum. He unconsciously clawed at the shrubs’ leaves. And no one else was in the house! Patrick had checked for a wedding ring in the past, and had been annoyed by the chance for a girlfriend. He felt relieved. Kind of disgusting, too. 

Robbie hit the camera’s power button. He gestured for silence when Patrick noticed the device blinking, the screen automatically fixating on the foreground. He raised it to eye level and zoomed in slightly, his pale fingers dancing this way and that. Had Mr. Wentz turned to the window, he would have seen them. He didn’t, and the photoshoot carried on.

“Hm,” Robbie murmured. He clicked through the last couple and pursed his mouth in anticipation. “The most interesting thing we have is his legs. Not much.”

Patrick, wary of the television’s faint drone, murmured in reply, “Who cares? This is plenty for me. We should go.”

“His tattoos are tough to make out.”

“It’s fine.”

A noise drifted into their conversation, a yawn from inside. They froze, recognized that there was no danger, and looked over. They watched. Mr. Wentz was stretching, his spine arched and his torso pushed skyward. The shirt he wore lifted with him, revealing more ink at his navel. It was a heart shaped design that appeared to chase his happy trail.

Patrick couldn’t help himself. His reaction reflected that of the run-in at the park.

“Oh my God.”

Pete jerked. His body abruptly upright. He stared out the window. There had been a gasp and a shushing sound and he swore there was glint of something silver. What was going on?

He decided to take action rather than wait to be murdered. As he rose from the couch, he saw the fucking plants move outside his window and he booked it to the front. Who was there!? He grabbed an umbrella from the corner and flung the door open, bellowing so intensely his throat burned.

“GO AWAY! I HAVE A GUN!”

The shrubs were ruffled, although no major harm done. A kid was fleeing the scene across the street, and another was crumpled, cowering, twigs caught in his dirty blonde hair. He took a wild guess regarding their identity before he demanded an explanation.

“Mr. Wentz, pl-please, I didn’t mean to."


	4. Chapter 4

“Patrick Stump,” Pete said aloud, his brain coming down from its frightened high. The words had been forced out. “What happened? No, wait.”

He realized that the kid was most likely flustered beyond what could be considered healthy. Collapsed by the shock of being caught. And caught doing what, exactly? He needed to know. His tactics changed from a lawn interrogation to a more inviting setting.

“Here, get up. Let’s go inside for a minute,” Pete said. He paused, wondering if that might not be enough and Patrick would take off once his back was turned. So he added, “I don’t want to have to tell your parents that you failed today’s quiz and you wrecked my yard.”

He gestured loosely toward the ruffled shrubs and scuffy footprints in the grass.

Dumbstruck, Patrick obeyed. He didn’t dare not to. He couldn’t care less about a conversation Mr. Wentz might have with his parents, definitely not, he was more concerned about being hated even more after what he did. At this point, he was sure running away would be the worst course of action. 

On his feet, he walked to the front door, which was held open for him. It was freaky. Inside, his shoes seemed to echo on the hardwood floors with the few steps he took. Then he was motionless.

Pete was soon behind him, though he didn’t close the door. It wasn’t done consciously, but rather a habit. From the first day he attended his educator’s classes, he had been taught to never shut a door when alone with a student. Always ajar. This was because it could give an outsider the wrong impression.

“Mr. Wentz, I’m sorry. We, I, we were being stupid,” Patrick babbled. His hands were clasped together, slowly losing color from the pressure. He watched Mr. Wentz walk toward the kitchen area. Unable to watch that backside move in those shorts, the sheer tension he felt pushed his gaze to the ceiling. “Me and Robbie didn’t know you were home. We weren’t trying to--”

“Robbie? As in.. Robert Finnegan?”

“Uh-Uhm, yeah.”

“Hah, I remember him. I had him last year.”

Patrick didn’t know what to say. Should he bother answering at all? Mr. Wentz had kind of sounded amused. The type of tone used while talking to oneself. 

Pete looked over his shoulder and noticed Patrick rooted to the spot. He pointed to the couch, saying, “Have a seat and we’ll chat a bit. Would you like a drink?”

Doing what he was told, Patrick hovered above the edge of the couch, and said, “No thanks. I don’t drink.”

Pete laughed, “I meant a non-alcoholic drink.”

“Oh. Uh, no.”

“I think you could at least use some water.”

Of course, there was no argument to be heard. Pete filled two glasses with ice and water from the refrigerator, a piece of ice jumping from the second glass. He watched it break on the floor, eyes noticing his own legs. Fantastic. If his his legs hadn’t gotten enough attention in their previous encounter, they definitely would now. Fuck, were his thighs really that hairy? He winced at himself. Still, he wouldn’t go put on his robe or anything. He knew it would be perceived awkwardly, and he couldn’t have that. This was his home, he was the victim who had his privacy invaded. He shouldn't have to change outfits.

Pete exited the kitchen and set both glasses on the coffee table. He grabbed the remote from its surface and switched off the television. Instead of the couch, he sat at the rocking chair. The wood creaked with his body, and he stared at the unexpected company. 

“Please tell me, why were you and Robbie Finnegan outside my window at,” Pete glanced at the clock above the oven, “eight o’ clock on a Friday night? The truth would be great, and, if not, a believable excuse is enough.”

He smiled and leaned into the chair.

Patrick squirmed, his hands having shifted to grip his elbows. He would be an idiot to give the truth, “I don’t know. Robbie had found out that you lived near me and thought it might be interesting to go poking around.”

“He thought it might be interesting? Only him?”

“I mean, I guess, I follow him around because he’s my friend.”

“Were you dragged into this, then?”

“Not literally. But yeah.”

With a nod, Pete mulled over what he had been told. It sounded fair, not terribly outrageous. And he assumed the continued expression of fear on Patrick’s face was fair, too. He couldn’t blame the kid.

Curious, he asked, “Does you coming here relate to seeing me last weekend?”

Patrick was unable to give a reply. His cell phone had begun to ring, loud and to the eight-bit version of a song Pete didn’t recognize. They glanced at each other.

Pete sighed and dropped the last question, “Answer it or don’t. I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

“N-No, I won’t,” Patrick said. Before he hung up on the caller, he went to see who it was. Robbie. What a jackass - he couldn’t be bothered to help him escape earlier, and yet he decided to call him? What, to check up on him? He hit the ‘end’ button and returned the cell phone to his jacket pocket.

“Sorry, Mr. Wentz.”

“You’re fine, don’t worry.”

“No, like,” Patrick licked the corner of his mouth, thinking of what he wanted to say, “I’m sorry for what me and Robbie did. We shouldn’t have been.. sneaking around your house.”

Pete nodded again, “Thank you for apologizing. Honestly, I don’t understand why you two would do this.”

“I don’t know. We were being jerks, that’s all.”

“I’d have to agree.”

Patrick wasn’t going to make Mr. Wentz aware that there had been a camera involved. It appeared that the camera had gone unseen, and he wasn’t going to discuss it if he didn’t have to. This whole thing would only become creepier with that information. Couldn’t he get arrested? His lips were sealed, he wanted to get out of this with the least amount of trouble possible. On the couch, he scooted more to the left. His knee bumped a folded blanket, and he settled his hand on top of the woolen material. It was reassuring. 

“I want you to understand that I won’t be calling your parents, and you won’t be going in on Monday to tell everyone about where I live or how I look outside of school. I’ll talk to Robbie later,” Pete said, observing the nonchalant touch on his dog’s blanket. He scratched at the side of his cheek, nails swirling against his beard. The weekend’s scruff hadn’t set in quite yet.

Patrick’s voice was small, “Okay. I won’t say a word on Monday. Or, I won’t say a word ever. Sorry.”

Finally, Patrick reached for the glass of water. The condensation required him to adjust his grip before he could take a drink, and he was relieved to soon have a chill coating his parched throat. As he drank, he took in the finer points of the house. It was modest; no harsh colors or tacky knick knacks, the most prominent details being a record player near the television and a framed photo of Mr. Wentz shaking a young lady’s hand. The photo was placed on the wall of a hallway that lead away from the main area. Creamy white paint and a single light fixture allowed him to see further down the hallway. He swore he could make out the shape of another door. Probably a bedroom door.

Patrick’s throat returned to its parched state. Mr. Wentz had said something, and he hadn’t been listening. Shit, whoops. He put down his glass and tried to make eye contact. It was difficult, his mind already wandering along a path of what he was desperate to do with this man beneath the sheets. He would bet Mr. Wentz’s bed smelled nice. Fabric softener and whatever shampoo he used.

“So, you don’t want to share?” Pete asked. He rested one leg over the other and wrinkled his forehead.

Patrick blinked twice, “Wait, what?”

“Robbie. Why be friends with someone who gets you into to trouble?”

“Because.. It’s fun? We usually have fun.”

Under the guide of Mr. Wentz prompts to better understand what had happened - it reminded Patrick of the discussion circles they performed in class - he explained his friendship with Robbie. Had Robbie, or Liam, for that matter, heard how he was spilling the beans, they would be livid. No one else was supposed to know about the little crimes they committed, the disdain they had for the school system. It’s what bonded them together! It wasn’t meant to be shared, especially not with a teacher!

By the time they had hashed out the reasoning for Patrick’s rebellious streak, he was a hot mess. Whenever Mr. Wentz would reach for his own water or roam his gaze in thought, Patrick fed his imagination. Discreetly. He stole looks of those arm tattoos and that bulge in his shorts. He did this without lingering, the anxiety of popping a boner stronger than his need to stare. Though his cock did manage to shiver in excitement, and he wound up crossing his legs. He would explode once he was safe in his room.

He couldn’t hide his frown at the suggestion that he should get going.

Pete, certain the last half hour they had spent talking was plenty, wondered, “Is everything all right at home?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it is. I just know Robbie is gonna smack me upside the head next he sees me,” Patrick said. It was partially true. Liam would do the same.

Pete wrinkled his brow in concern.

“Kidding,” Patrick chuckled uneasily.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

They walked to the front door, where it remained slightly propped open. Outside, the air was quiet, the squeak of the doorknob beneath Pete’s fingers almost startling them both.

“Thanks for being cool about this,” Patrick told him shyly. He had moved to stand on the porch, fists clenched and stretching the pockets of his jacket. “I owe you. I promise I’ll and get an ‘A’ in your class.”

Pete’s response was gentle, “I appreciate that. Try your best to behave, please. I know rebelling is something you want to do, but I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

“Okay, Mr. Wentz.”

“Goodnight then, I’ll see you on Monday.”

The door shut, and Patrick wiped sweat from his hairline as he fixed the alignment of his glasses. He turned and took deep breaths with his first several steps toward the sidewalk. He was smiling.

\---

Sunday morning found Pete laid up in bed. The only movements he had made were to take a piss and grab his laptop. He couldn’t be bothered for a run, his mind simply wasn’t there. 

Rather, his focus was on touching himself.

He was feeling lazy, cock lulling in one hand with the other scrolling through clips of porn. His favorite website had heaps of new material, suggesting that he hadn’t recently visited. When he did find a video of his tastes, typically a younger girl giving a blow job, he struggled to enjoy it. His Internet connection was lagging, the girls acting overly cheerful and working to maintain their perfectly scrunched ponytails. He grumbled.

Pete lifted from his pillows for a stretch. The laptop was closed and he headed into the den, half-flaccid cock drawing an outline at the front of his briefs. He sat at the middle of the couch and kicked his feet onto the coffee table, careful to not have his sock-clad heels slide along the glass. He tilted back with his eyes shut.

The incident from Friday night was fresh in his mind. It caused him to be paranoid and triple check that each surrounding window had their shudders secured. He needed a good five minutes until he was was able to attend to his budding erection without worry.

While he stroked, he remembered how his old girlfriend rarely allowed him to cum where he wanted to. He loved to shoot his load on her face. Not maliciously, no, he wasn’t trying to blind her. It was just his preference. He found it hot. Tightening his grip, he replayed the handful of times when she had taken it in the face. He groaned, mouth slack with pleasure. 

The mental image of her faded. The tip of his cock was wet with pre-cum, and he concentrated on the idea of dripping his release down a face. He gave a louder groan and moved his unoccupied hand to steady himself with a cushion. He accidentally caught the blanket.

Patrick appeared behind his eyelids.

“Ah, no, f-fuck..!” Pete’s teeth were snapped into a tight grimace. He could picture Patrick seated on the couch, leg against the blanket, gaze wide with guilt and neck flushed with embarrassment. It was a sinister spark, gone in an instant. A yelp escaped him, and he removed his hand from his cock. “Fuck!”

His swear reverberated off the hardwood floors, and he bolted from the couch, panting. _Sick_. 

He shoved his erection back into his briefs and paced for a moment. That was a fluke. An unintentional fantasy. He would never view a student in a sexual way, and obviously not a male student. No. He had experienced an odd past couple of weekends, and he blamed it entirely on that. He was stressed from dealing with kids inside and outside of school, from getting older, from being lonely - everything. 

The shower he took was so cold, he couldn’t think.


	5. Chapter 5

The bathroom mirror showed Patrick’s bedhead and faded pajamas. He tapped his chin thoughtfully and looked at the shower behind him. Nah. He had showered yesterday morning, he was clean enough. 

Teeth soon brushed and face washed, he changed into something new. It was cool in the mornings, nearly October, and he made sure to pull on fuzzy socks under his jeans. It took him a good ten minutes to choose a shirt, the rejected ones creating a pile in front of the closet. He settled on navy blue polo with a high collar and thin gray stripes. The stripes were horizontal, which caused his only concern to be his weight. Weren’t horizontal stripes supposed to make you look fatter? He did a double take in the mirror, spinning all the way around, before snagging his jacket. He zipped it an inch past his belly button.

Patrick’s final challenge was his hair. Not allowed to wear hats in school, he attempted to style it. First, he wet both hands and ran them through the dirty blonde strands, which simply stuck to his scalp. Gross. He yanked the old blowdryer out from under the sink cabinet and plugged it in. After drying his hair, he then tried using the gel his mom had bought him last Christmas. The purple goop was expired, unbeknownst to him. Combing it through his hair was like spreading marshmallow fluff on bread - it bunched together and failed to blend evenly. He scowled.

At this point, his alarm clock declaring a few minutes past seven, he gave up and rinsed out the gel. He placed the hood of his jacket over his head, the strings tight to hold it in place. It was a decent touch, especially with his bangs visible across his forehead. In his opinion, he looked effortlessly cozy. And he would wear his hood until a teacher told him to lower it. Stupid dress code. Of course, he would be able to wear it in Mr. Wentz’s class, he was lax about those types of school policies. 

Mr. Wentz. 

God, despite the utter fear his misadventure had sparked, seeing that man in his casual clothes at home had been a wet dream for Patrick. They had this weird, fantastic connection now. He knew it. He tingled just thinking about it, managing to skip his usual stare at the William Beckett poster while he grabbed his backpack. Downstairs, his mother waved him toward the kitchen.

“You missed your bus,” Mrs. Stump chided. She was up to her elbows in dish water, scrubbing a particularly greasy pan.

Patrick pointed to his damp bangs and shrugged, “Mom, I was showering. Sorry.”

“Well, that’s good. You get so sweaty sometimes.”

“.. Yeah. Anyway, since you don’t work today, can you give me a ride?”

“Mm, I suppose. Let me get my keys, sweetie.”

Mrs. Stump wiped off on a dishtowel and straightened the shawl on her neck. She smiled and went to find her purse. 

In the family Volkswagen, Patrick toyed with his glasses. He sat in the backseat, rubbing his fingers across the frame. He wished he didn’t have to wear them. Of the two boys he had kissed, both had complimented his eyes. It was difficult to recognize their lovely color unless there was close proximity. He wanted Mr. Wentz to notice his eyes. But when he removed his glasses, he had trouble reading the ‘Hold Your Head High Heavy Heart’ he had penned onto his wrist last night. The glasses would have to stay.

Really, he would be fine being noticed in whatever way. He needed to relive that rush of being the absolute center of Mr. Wentz’s attention.

“Thanks!” Patrick called to his mother as he hopped from the car. From the curb, he saw the main gate was open. He walked past it and entered the building where he had first period. 

The hallways were snug, a heater humming somewhere in the ducts above, and mostly empty. Students didn’t visit their teachers for fun or for help with homework the way they had in junior high. Everyone was too good for that at this point in their education. According to his parents, it would start again in college. 

Alone and with time to spare, Patrick camped outside the door for his first period class. On his cell phone, he reread the separate conversations he had been having with Robbie and Liam. They were unable to have a three-way conversation on their cell phones. That was solely possibly via IM, where Liam would constantly snicker about the phrase ‘three-way’. Heh. The glow of the screen illuminated his smirk.

Liam had gone on and on about how much of a lucky idiot Patrick was. It was funny, and Patrick had to correct a couple of details on what had happened. For example, everyone involved had been clothed. He texted Liam that he would tell the full story next time they saw each other and reminded him that none of this was meant for the rumor mill. Robbie was the single soul aside from himself that Liam was permitted to discuss this with. Speaking of which.. He backtracked and opened the thread with Robbie.

A set of four photos from Robbie’s camera had been sent. None of them were exceptionally stunning; the first two were blurry, the third was mainly a shot of the ceiling, and the fourth was a reflection of the lense in the window pane. Gazing at them, on his shitty flip phone, he couldn’t help reminiscing. He had gotten so much from that experience, and he craved more. He might dare to try a riskier move if given a second opportunity, though he wasn’t ready with any specifics. Guess that’s why he had the friends he did. 

Blaring its three chimes, the bell for first period snatched him from his daydream.

\---

Patrick’s demeanor shifted day by day during that week. From hopeful to annoyed. By Friday, he was silently seething in English class. Poetry be damned.

He didn’t understand. It was as if he were being ignored. As if their little run-in had slipped out of Mr. Wentz’s memory. Was that truly the case? Or was this on purpose? He grappled with these questions instead of completing his classwork. He couldn’t concentrate. 

The following week was worse.

Frustrated, he endured sixth period. He would arrive late and simply be pointed to his desk, chew gum and receive no more than a sideways glance, raise his hand when asked and always have another student chosen. He didn’t want to be a total delinquent to get an ounce of acknowledgment. Nor did he want to approach this in a peaceful, one-on-one manner. He didn’t know what to do.

Mr. Wentz seemed to be unlike himself in other ways, Patrick observed. His yellow-blonde hair was less bright, his neckties looser. Although the most obvious change was how unfunny he had become. Generally, he enjoyed being silly or too excited about the mundane parts of an English class. Making the students laugh or at least roll their eyes sarcastically. There hadn’t been a sliver of humor since they returned from that weekend. Not that anyone else cared.

Patrick felt cheated, owed. He had left Mr. Wentz’s house on what he believed to be a positive note! This was ridiculous, he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong! He had apologized after being caught and talked the situation out, and, of course, he hadn’t spread gossip. Why was he treated this way? 

He was caught up in his own head. His righteous reasoning spiraled his brain in the wrong directions.

Pete was uncomfortable. Watching Patrick fuss for attention stressed him out. He didn’t want to discipline him, he thought he had already taken care of that! He was done.

The path he chose, disregarding Patrick, was a solid option. Or so he expected. What else could he do? It was difficult to be _normal_ at this point, and he certainly wasn’t going to change into this _friend_ for Patrick. And so far, he was surviving.

What’s more, he had begun a new morning and night routine. He would work out, a pattern of stretches accompanied by jumping jacks and push ups, then douse his body in a cold shower. Yes, he showered twice a day every day now. It made his hair dry and he was often late for first period.

He had to, he was terrified. He didn’t want a repeat of his imagination running wild. There could be no risk of Patrick. The exhausting exercise combined with the frigid water was enough to maintain control.

Pete was doing fine up to the third week past their encounter. It was Tuesday, school had ended for the day, and he was grading composition books. A stack half his height, bulky with teenaged musings. They were nearing the end of the first quarter, which meant he needed to check his students’ personal writing progress. Most were unsurprising, and he typed numbers into the computer with lazy strokes. Patrick’s was found at the bottom of the pile. He read it. He didn’t want to be petty.

_October 11, 2008_

_Prompt: A crime you have suffered, what was the outcome? Have you grown differently because of it?_

This was the latest entry, written yesterday. Patrick had scratched out:

_You speak and make time stand still,  
And each time you walk right on by,  
Like violence you have me forever,  
And after,  
Like violence you kill me forever,  
And after._

Pete read the words once, twice, and on the third time, he recalled where he knew them from. Blink-182’s most recent album, the song “Violence”. He frowned and supposed this was related to the prompt. Not that he was going to reward points for regurgitating lyrics. Maybe Patrick had been hoping he could pass them off as his own? Earn some credit for creativity? 

No, wait.

Patrick had purposefully used lyrics his teacher would know.

\---

“May I speak with you for a moment?” 

Pete couldn’t stand to watch Patrick put away his pencil and grammar booklet in his backpack. Leisurely and somehow spitefully. The kid was determined to be tardy.

Patrick’s reply was rude, “What? Oh, you mean me? No.”

“A moment, please. It’s about your composition book.”

The stubbornness Patrick had been glued to melted a bit, his ears perking at the plead. It was sincere. Plus, he was curious to see if this was about what he wrote yesterday. He moved out of his seat and looked at the door. Backpack over his shoulder, he walked forward and reached for the handle.

“Listen--”

“I’m just closing it. I’ll talk,” Patrick said. He did so, and wished he could lock it. That would be a little extreme, he guessed.

On his desk, Pete leaned with his arms folded. His posture was straightened and he nodded for him to sit at the shorter desk in front of him. A pause was taken. He had what he was going to say prepared, he did, it was a matter of putting it delicately. He sensed Patrick would benefit from that. He pursed his lips before parting them. 

“How are you?”

“..”

“Patrick?”

“God, uhh, fine? Wondering why you’re picking on me now after ignoring me so much,” Patrick huffed. 

Pete swallowed a sigh and unfolded his arms. Steady. There were high intensity emotions being experienced here, it would be best to remain tied to that delicate approach. He rose his eyebrows in sympathy.

“I apologize if I’ve made you feel picked on or ignored. That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“It’s not?”

“Of course not,” Pete said. He caught Patrick’s stare, became distracted by a smudge on those glasses, and continued, “It’s been tough for me, as well. You and Robert invaded my privacy, and I’m working to move past it. Forgive and forget.”

Patrick sniffed, “Yeah. Sorry. We fucked that up for sure.”

“Language.”

Patrick shrugged.

To return to his original point, Pete asked, “Why did you write those lyrics on Monday? You didn’t answer the prompt, along with a few other entries. You’ll be losing a considerable amount of points.”

Pete, interested in a reaction, saw the younger man slump. He added to the defeatist stance by tightening the hood of his jacket and wrinkling his nose.

“.. I thought you’d like them. I do,” Patrick said quietly.

“Well, I know them, yes. They’re viciously personal, and I’d say borderline inappropriate.”

While he spoke, Pete could hear the song playing in the back of his mind. The moody guitar and drums licked over what he needed to say next. He couldn’t remember. The song was short, and he could hear the vocals cutting through outside world. But it didn’t blind him. He could still see Patrick. Leaving the desk and stepping within a foot of him.

Patrick could almost taste the blood rushing to his face, saying, “I wrote the stuff that matched the prompt. It’s all I could think of. I didn’t put in the beginning or end parts.”

“Yes, you did only put the chorus,” Pete answered. His hands flattened on the edge of the desk behind him. For a second, he questioned why he hadn’t fought the door being shut.

“How does the song start, Mr. Wentz?”

“It, it’s pretty upbeat.”

“Something, something.. _Down the drain, waste of time_.. _I’d ask if you feel the same_?” Patrick sang. 

Pete listened. The tune didn’t ring true to the original, kind of crass version. Patrick’s singing was a sugared molasses. It sounded good. Warm. On the brink of sensual, actually.

“ _Still pushing that chance to try_.. And..?” Patrick wondered. His voice had cracked on the finishing note. Though it wasn’t an easy mistake to catch, the song barely above a whisper at this point. His toes curved inside his shoes, his chin tilted upward. 

“I’m,” Pete hesitated, “I can’t remember the rest of the song. Either way, don’t write lyrics in your composition book.” 

Stomping his right foot, Patrick grunted in anger. He was being disregarded again! Immediately and unabashedly! What the fuck did he have to do, belt out feelings in a multi-part musical act!? His eyesight watered and he must have cursed aloud, because he suddenly had hands on his shoulders. Holding him. 

“Tell me the next verse,” Patrick shuddered softly. He was crying. 

Pete didn’t sing, the words tumbling out in a prayer, “ _Your breath in this cool room chill_.”

Patrick heard the verse and hiccuped. Hearing it caught him off guard, his hysterics calmed. Rather, the crying shrunk to the size of a small sob. His desires remained insane. 

He rolled his shoulders, currently in Mr. Wentz’s grip, and said, “C’mon. If you’re gonna do something, do it now.”


	6. Chapter 6

A steady, delicate approach. That’s what Pete wanted to show here. So when he kissed Patrick, he held him by the back of his head. Fingers at the roots of his hair, the jacket’s hood falling from the action. 

Pete had shut his eyes. He couldn’t see those opposite of his own, couldn’t see its reaction. He could only feel plastic glasses frame between their noses. The tears, too. Their streams stamped somewhere over his cheekbone. Shit, he hated that there was crying. With his lips moving, the rest of his body tensed. 

Patrick was swooning. Absolutely melting on the spot. He had gotten in Mr. Wentz’s face, dared him to make a move, and it had worked. Yes, he had been right, there was a connection! He would be smug if he weren’t in the middle of living out a fantasy. Here was his best case scenario. This was light years beyond the head pat or hug he might have expected. He groaned didn’t care how desperate it sounded. 

Being surprised by the kiss left Patrick open-mouthed for the first couple of seconds, followed by a scramble to act like he knew how to kiss. He did. Obviously he couldn’t compare past experiences to this older, hotter man holding him in an empty room 710 at Newfound Chicago Public Fucking High. A space where they played the role of teacher and student. He exhaled sharply.

“Mr.--”

“No.”

It didn’t matter what he was going to say, Pete didn’t want to hear it. He deepened their kiss, tasting Patrick and turning his head further to one side. He pressed their chests together. The adrenaline he was experiencing increased, though it helped that the door, with a poster shielding its window, was completely shut.

If they were caught, his career would be shattered. Even if they weren’t, the potential was still there. Despite Patrick seeming to enjoy what he was doing, he didn’t know how he was actually internalizing it. He could have this whole thing flipped on him in an instant. He kissed him harder, arching them.

Pete wished he had a reason for doing this. Initiating physical contact was the worst offense. And for what? Because the kid liked him and had been crying? He winced until he began to grimace, then forced his features to relax. No excuse. 

He wasn’t acting out from being under some kind of influence from drugs or alcohol. Nor was he being seduced by a lusty young lady with a killer body. Either scenario, he knew, would make processing this easier later on. A legitimate blame he could use. But no, he couldn’t say what this was besides an emotional break brought on by provocative song lyrics. It was strange. Beyond that, of course, it was unethical and disgusting. Greater than the sickness he had experienced brought on by the accidental mental image of Patrick while masturbating.

Hand were fumbling around him. He would focus on that disgust later.

Finally, Patrick had decided that he couldn’t hang limp any longer. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, and his uncertainty reflected in how they trembled, regardless of how many times he had played this out. From where they originally lay at his sides, the highest he managed to raise them was to Mr. Wentz’s hips. He clung to the belt he found. Before settling his grip between a pair of belt loops, he brushed over the smooth material and wondered how quickly he could undo the buckle. 

Once the initial shock had worn off, Patrick’s cock was awake and starting to swell. After a good minute of kissing, which, he was happy to say felt more similar to making out now, his jeans couldn't compress his excitement. His cock was looking for attention, fully flushed against his lower stomach. He reversed their arched stance by a few degrees, allowing himself to rub his crotch on Mr. Wentz’s thigh in an effort to find relief. It worked for a moment, and then he became harder and wanted more. His cock was fat and almost painful, his balls crushed by its throbs. He needed the fingers wrapped up in his hair to move downward. Seriously, just a stroke or two and he would be over the moon.

“Can, can I,” Patrick spoke without any idea as to what he was going to say, “uhm..?”

Pete was gruff, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I, I just thought maybe..?”

“You’re fine.”

Pete had meant to be comforting in his response, incorrectly assuming that Patrick was voicing his fears, although his words had an aggressive tone to them. He shook it off and used the pause to explore Patrick’s neck with his lips. He touched the soft skin, careful not to leave a mark, and didn’t stop until he was at the collarbone, where he realized how harsh the breathing above him had become. Not that he was terribly surprised, the erection he could feel having already told him how aroused Patrick was.

Ready to get busy again, he put his right hand beneath Patrick’s chin. Those eyes captured the nasty fluorescent lights brilliantly, turned them into stars. It reminded him of how he had looked after getting caught outside his front window. Delinquent and subdued. 

Pete’s desk phone rang. 

It was difficult to tell who jumped higher, both startled by the noise. They came close to knocking the phone from the desk, their instinct to untangle themselves bumping the desk several inches out of place. 

Pete lifted the receiver on the last ring, having taken time to stabilize his voice. He had been shaking. 

“Ms. Benny asking for essay resources,” Pete said in response to the question that Patrick’s frightened expression asked. The call had ended. “Nothing else.”

He sighed and glanced at the young man on the other side of his desk.

“I’ve done enough to ruin everything,” Pete said, gesturing around the classroom for emphasis. He dropped his head, lowered to a whisper, “And all this guilt will punish me until the time comes.”

“Wh-What?”

“Can I see you Friday? Eight o’ clock, my place, it’ll be parallel to a few weeks ago. Except, come alone. Robbie and whoever else you hang out with don’t need to be a part of this.”

“I, yeah, okay.”

Patrick was so elated when he accepted the offer, he forget to snag a late pass for his next class. He was overwhelmed. 

\---

Five minutes to eight, Pete dimmed most of the lights in his home, save the one on the porch, the lamp near the television, and the television itself. The volume was in the single digits, the channel changed to the mundane evening news. He stood in the middle of the room, waiting. 

Presently, he was in a clear state of mind. Logical, and, frankly, fairly hetereosexual. And, through mysterious means, tonight’s plans remained intact. This couldn’t be a mistake - and in case it was, he couldn’t undo it at this point. He was going to take what he could.

He had exited the shower a half hour ago, beard trimmed and cologne sprinkled. Dinner had been eaten early, as soon as he had come home, the dishes done and put away and the refrigerator stocked with sodas. Thinking about how they were meant for his guest, should he want a drink beside water, made him uncomfortable. An enticing treat for a forbidden fruit. Fuck, that was fucked. At least it wasn’t alcohol. That would undoubtedly scream bad intentions.

“Argh,” Pete grumbled involuntarily. He couldn’t do this. Or rather, he couldn’t do this if he was going to pick apart each piece. He shoved both hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and paced. He had never been patient in romance department.

At 8:09, convinced that he was being ratted out to the police, he heard someone arrive. _Knock, knock, knock_!

Like a paranoid junkie, he used the peephole. He saw Patrick.

Unlocking the door and swinging it open, he greeted, “Hey. Kick your shoes off, they’re pretty muddy.”

“Geez, uh,” Patrick said, taken aback by the order. Now untying the laces on his old combat boots, he went on, “I had to hop my backyard fence. Dad said I couldn’t leave because I was back-talking yesterday. Had to be sneaky.”

Pete scarcely heard him, occupied with how he had demanded shoes be removed. Was that overly-authoritative? He didn’t want to constantly reinforce to the kid that he was his teacher. There had to be a sort of power balance. He turned around.

Patrick, in his socks and nose dusted pink from the cold weather, appeared to be untroubled. He scratched the side of his head and moved his earbuds from around his neck to his jacket pocket. He asked, “Do you have the heat on? I hate wearing this jacket, it makes me look puffy.”

“It’s on. You can put it on the hook there.”

“Thanks.”

“Here, have a seat.”

At the couch, Pete took the closest cushion and reclined into a decorative pillow, hoping to relax. But when Patrick sat within arms reach, he fixed his posture. He couldn’t help it. 

“Do I have to silence my phone?” Patrick joked. He was nervous. From his pants’ pocket, he took out his cell phone and iPod. He placed them on the coffee table. They were bulky and awkward when he was sitting, he didn’t need any extra irritations.

“No, no you don’t,” Pete said. He bit his lip. “Let’s not talk about or make references to school.”

“Sure, Mr. Wentz.”

“.. Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

Pete was going to tell him that ‘Mr. Wentz’ could be considered a reference to school, decided his first name wouldn’t be better, and he let it slide. No, it was fine. Being called by his first name would add a whole other level to this situation. Instead, he shook his head, “Why did you let that happen on Wednesday?”

Patrick, toying with a loose thread of his t-shirt, replied, “I guess because.. I couldn’t believe it.”

“It was, yes, it felt surreal.”

“I wanted to kiss you so bad. I’d been daydreaming about it forever.”

The couch squeaked under Patrick’s weight, his body perfectly facing Mr. Wentz. His feet tucked between the bottom of the couch and the rug. 

“You had?” Pete wondered how stupid that sounded. Yet he continued, “Why?”

“I don’t know, you’re really handsome? More than anyone I know..”

Flattered, Pete soaked in the compliment. He didn’t want to be pushy tonight, and he could sense that Patrick didn’t want to be, either. However, there was more ground to cover. It was necessary.

“Mr. Wentz?” Patrick asked, beating him to the next punch of the conversation. His eyes were on the television.

“Hm?”

“Are you going to kiss me again?”

Pete nodded, “If that’s what you want to do. We won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

Patrick mirrored the nod, and noticed a balloon of heat forming in his gut. It rose to his throat, and he couldn’t speak. He tried to swallow it and got a mouthful of cotton. More nervousness. 

“Are you thirsty? Here,” Pete said, standing. He realized that he was also too anxious to shift from talking to physical contact. At least, not completely. He grazed Patrick’s shoulder on his way up. 

Whether or not he was invited to do so, Patrick followed him. The kitchen tile was cold, even on his covered feet. He reached for the man in front of him, catching the hem of those sweatpants. The fabric stretched in his hold, and he didn’t know what the next move should be. He waited and watched a hand take his own.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” Patrick murmured.

“I worry,” Pete told him, keeping their hands together. “It’s hard not to.”

“They won’t find out.”

“ ‘They’?”

“Everyone.”

Pete kissed him. He went in a little fast and received a yelp, their teeth scraping, and drew him in by the waist to apologize. Smacking and sucking and loving Patrick’s lips. The flavor from earlier that week became fresh on his tongue, a vanilla frosting on this cupcake. It was more delicious than he dared to admit aloud.

“Do it,” Pete said. There were timid fingers roaming his clothed spine. “Touch me.”

Patrick pushed past the shirt, scrunching it in the middle. Exploring the muscles and rib bones, he forgot to return the kisses. He was fascinated. He wished he had better lighting. Did that tan cover his entire body? Speaking of which, he was dying to see him naked. His sense of touch could only map out so much. It definitely couldn't show him where more tattoos could be hiding.

“Sorry, you feel really good,” Patrick apologized. His ass was being grabbed, his stiff cock pressed to tight Mr. Wentz’s hip. He was embarrassed by what a small amount of friction he needed.

“‘S’okay.”

Truthfully, for Pete, having a boner burrowing into his side was a sensation he wasn’t used to. He had never gotten this far with another guy. He maintained the kiss, sizing Patrick with the pressure he created, and stopped short to lift him up. They had stepped toward the countertop, and he was able to heave Patrick onto the granite surface. They broke apart to gasp.

Patrick was enamored, “I’m lucky you’re so strong. Seriously.”

Pete smiled, his happiness indistinguishable in the dark kitchen. The biggest source of light was that of the streetlamp beyond the window above the sink, made bleary by the drawn curtains. He spread Patrick’s legs to be on either side of him and leaned in.

“You’re sweet when you moan,” Pete said, tempted by the voice that answered his strokes. He had his hands on Patrick’s thighs, his mouth near that gentle jawline. He meant what he said, stuck on that day in the classroom, “It’s like you’re singing.”

“You think so, o-oh?”

“Mmhm, do it louder.”

Patrick thought he was going to pass out. And into what? His dreams had become his reality. He supposed he would fade to a blissful abyss. He felt kisses trailing down and obeyed. He moaned, shivered. Had they been in an embrace, he would have been able to notice that he was no longer alone, those sweatpants beginning to tent.

His t-shirt was pulled away from his stomach and his moan hitched. Oh God, oh God! His cock ached with anticipation. Was he gonna get a blowjob?

He couldn’t wonder for long, thrusting and cumming while Mr. Wentz’s hands caressed him through his pants.


	7. Chapter 7

“Cold? I can get another blanket.”

“No, just thinking about heading home.”

“Why? It’s-- Shit, you’re right.”

“Yeah,” Patrick nodded. He lowered the cell phone screen with the current time. Now in a sitting position, he scratched at his face, his peach fuzz sideburns seemingly stealing more space every day. He muffled a yawn. It was a quarter past midnight. Sunday. A little past two weeks since this had begun.

On the couch where he sat, Mr. Wentz lay in a heap; blonde tips contrasting with dark eyes, a tiny cut on his lip, still shiny with blood Patrick’s teeth had drawn, and his sweater wrinkled beyond belief. He mumbled a complaint about his neck being sore, the words nearly lost in the record player. He had put the album _Four Minute Mile_ by The Get Up Kids on repeat. The classic pop punk, if there was such a genre, floated through Mr. Wentz’s den. It was a nice break from hearing the television’s babble, and of course better than no sound at all. They couldn’t do this in silence.

Pete thickly pushed air out his nose, sniffled, and asked, “You’re all right, then? Nothing bothering you?”

“I’m good. You’re amazing, though.”

“I’d have to disagree. But to each his own.”

Pete watched him remove his jacket from where it hung on the back of the couch. Out of a pocket, Patrick took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He opened his mouth to object. Then closed it. He wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it would be. Smoking was a mere drop of sin compared to the ocean of unholiness they had created. This was the third or fourth time they had met at Pete’s home, not counting the spying incident with Robbie, and there were no intentions to stop. It was becoming a habit that they were powerless to stop. A hushed, dirty fixation.

What Pete did feel he controlled, however, was the speed. He had more experience, and he knew that it was best to walk through this relationship in small steps. He wasn’t pushing for sex or anything that Patrick wasn’t ready for. The kid was a virgin in most regards, and he was in no hurry to change that. He was actually a bit squicked out by the idea of dominating all the ‘firsts’ of a person this young. He couldn’t dwell on it too much, otherwise he would freak and be unable to perform.

Tonight had been the first time Pete had made Patrick orgasm with his hand. Before, it had been by dry-humping or strokes over his clothed cock. 

Pete had been pinning him to the couch, whispering about how soft that body was, when Patrick began to undo his own pants. Fast and without a hint of hesitation. He had them shoved to his thighs with a few grunts, aching as he brushed against Pete’s sweater. His erection nestled into the woolly material. He had sworn that he wasn’t going to make a mess on himself tonight. It made him feel fucking childish.

_“I want you-your hands on me.”_

_“.. Are you sure?”_

_“Please. Please jerk me off.”_

The slow touches Patrick received had him close to cumming in under a minute. He wanted to last longer, and he managed to hang on by kissing so roughly that he sliced Mr. Wentz’s lip with a canine tooth. He had apologized and soon sensed a thumb at the tip. In circles, it smoothed his cock’s pink head and held firm during the bursts of cum. Mr. Wentz caught the spill, Patrick’s huffs of exhausted pleasure filling the room. 

And somehow, the following hours had slipped away. Sandwiched between cushions and the weight of their actions.

“I’ll do it on the way home,” Patrick said quietly, replacing the cigarettes and lighter in his jacket pocket. “It’s cold out, anyways. Gotta stay warm, huh?”

Pete was concerned, “You do. Patrick, you understand I would drive you home if I could, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

Patrick waved a hand at him, he couldn’t think of anything else to do. It sucked that he was being made to trudge home after sundown in Chicago’s late October weather. Alone. But he would survive. They couldn’t risk being seen in a car together, mainly due to the fact that none of his friends owned or were allowed to borrow a vehicle. Their immediate thought would be that Liam had hotwired his neighbor’s truck. He looked at Mr. Wentz, midriff exposed and tattoos peeking out. The sight made walking home in the cold worth it.

“You know what would make me feel better?” Patrick teased. “You putting your number in my phone.”

“Ha ha. Very cute,” Pete said, pinching the nearest ear he could reach. He let go once he was standing, “You’re hilarious.”

Swapping phones numbers was dangerous, in Pete’s opinion. While having Patrick send him texts or photos could be fun, he wasn’t going to fall victim to such concrete evidence should this agreement turn sour. No, they were to communicate strictly face-to-face. Additionally, he didn’t want to be accessible outside of their meetups. He needed to dodge the perception of a solid commitment. That's not what this was.

Patrick went on with his teasing, “It was worth a shot. Maybe one day.”

“Definitely not.”

“Sure, Mr. Wentz.”

Patrick got his kiss goodnight and was homebound soon enough, his jacket’s collar pulled high for extra warmth. He could live without having the phone number. He would probably abuse it and screw this up, he figured. What he craved the most was seeing Mr. Wentz fully undressed, hard and ready to fill him.

He wondered how he could make that happen. Through seduction? Aggression? He wasn’t particularly talented at either, and he was already aware of how Mr. Wentz was taking the lead. Waiting was probably ideal. Again, he didn’t want to screw this up. He had it good, no need to be greedy.

The cigarettes and lighter were unbothered for the remainder of the walk home. 

\---

On the kitchen countertop, Patrick sat with his legs crossed, eating quietly. There had been about a fourth of his mother’s homemade coconut cream cake leftover in the refrigerator, which he plopped onto a plate. He inhaled gobs of frosting, the layers crumbling at the might of his fork. He was hungry! Besides, he had earned it. His nighttime activities pretty much counted for exercise. The walk home, too.

During the largest bite yet, his father appeared at the bottom of the stairs and flicked on the lights. He had a direct view of his son.

“Patrick? Why are you awake?” Mr. Stump questioned immediately. He padded toward him, squinting and rubbing the corners of his eyes. He stopped. Getting a better look at what he was seeing, his mood shifted from irritated to suspicious, “Why are you dressed?”

“‘S’cold,” Patrick swallowed, the cake like glue on the back of his throat. “I dunno.”

“Were you out?”

“No.”

Mr. Stump sighed, calling upstairs, “Honey, come down. I need your help with this.”

“Dad,” Patrick protested. He put his plate in the sink and stood, tugging at the hem of his jacket. He watched his mother, shuffling in a pair of slippers, enter the kitchen area. How quickly she had joined them told Patrick that she was worried and had been waiting for a signal.

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Stump went to stand at her son’s side, a hand on his shoulder. She hated the idea of him being driven around after dark by kids who were barely legal. “Did something happen?”

“No, Mom. Nothing is going on.”

Mr. Stump interjected, “Oh, he’s safe and sound. Down here eating without a problem. But he says he’s dressed for the ‘cold’.”

Together, Patrick felt his parents observe him. Doubtfully. He knew he had to think of a lie - any lie would do, really. The truth was crazier than whatever he could pull out of his ass.

“I.. I, err..”

“Were you out or not?” Mr. Stump repeated. His arms were folded, pale skin beginning to brighten with anger.

“We just want to know, sweetie.”

Patrick nodded slowly, “I was. I got back, uhh, I guess ten minutes ago. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you were with those two seniors,” his father fussed, ignoring the reassurances given by his wife. “Idiots will be in jail before they graduate.”

“No, I, it was a different friend. A girl, I swear. I snuck out because we had a date, she wanted to see a late movie. Her name’s Katie,” Patrick lied. Shyly, he clasped his hands and gazed at the floor. He heard them both make murmurs of surprise, swore he sensed them turning their heads at one another. He stirred in a final detail to convince them, “I met her in my English class.”

Patrick was relieved when his mother put a hand on his shoulder for a second time, a squeeze and a ‘Thank you for telling us’ added. He then dug in for the safe sex lecture as his father shifted his hands to the pockets of his bathrobe. 

Next time, he would be more careful.

\--- 

When next Friday came around, Patrick was pissed. It was the perfect night for him to slide over to Mr. Wentz’s place, his parents out of town until Sunday for a wedding, but he had to hang back. He had been forced into a host position by his friends. Why? Because they could fucking text him and make or change or cancel arrangements. 

Of course, with no way of telling Mr. Wentz what was going on! This is exactly why they needed to exchange numbers! God, he hoped he wasn’t labeled as a ditcher inside _and_ outside of the classroom. He was half-considering showing up tomorrow to compromise for lost time. 

He knocked the bottom end of his cell phone against his forehead for emphasis on how stupid this was. He could hear his friends arriving. Loud as usual.

“Okay, okay! Geez,” Patrick said, opening the front door for his friends. They had been banging their fists on the door and making pornographic ‘Ooh!’ noises. Psychos. Cockblocks.

“Who puked in your Froot Loops?” Liam immediately attacked him with. He would have tackled the kid if he hadn’t been carrying two cases of beer. “We didn’t come here to have you pout at us, ya Froot Loop.”

Patrick snorted, “I didn’t invite you guys.”

“Sure you did. Telling us that your Mommy and Daddy aren’t here for a couple days is the plainest invite I can think of.”

“Whatever.”

Trailing behind them, Robbie had been cackling and asking what there was to eat, Patrick gathered the discarded clothes. Liam’s beanie and Robbie’s scarf were coated in a perfume of cigarette and weed smoke, prompting him to toss them on the porch’s bench. He didn’t care how cold they would be later, he wasn’t going to be blamed for a stinking house. Which reminded him.

“Hey, don’t light up in here. I’ll get busted,” Patrick told them firmly. 

From where they were tearing apart the living room couch, Liam answered, “We know. And didn’t you already get busted this week? You snuck out?”

Patrick shrugged, “Yeah. It wasn’t that bad, I played it off, had to tell them I was seeing a girl.”

“That’s a funny lie. What were you doing? Spying on that teacher again?”

“Aha, no, no. In my dreams, maybe.”

Liam became distracted by their cushion fort’s layout, an interesting sight for someone over six foot. He didn’t care enough to ask where his buddy had been, his assumption being that it was lame. Exciting stuff was rarely mixed into his life without their company. 

Feeling that his laughter was a weird response, Patrick ducked into the kitchen. He pretended to be busy with a bag of chips from the pantry. Eating and drinking wasn’t such an awful idea. The television was switched on, and he failed to hear the footsteps that followed his own. He jumped.

“Whoa!” Robbie said from where he had chosen to lean, the countertop pressed to his studded belt. He blinked at what a spaz he was dealing with here. “I was going to check if there was any soda to wash down that cheap-ass beer, but damn. Why are you all scared?”

“Sorry.”

Patrick was short of breath, his neck rigid. He waved a hand at Robbie, though didn’t utter a word. Even if he knew what to say, he wouldn’t say it. 

Robbie grabbed the chips, further ripping the seal and said, “You look stressed. We’re supposed to be the opposite right now, right? _Right_? I mean, Trick, relax.”

“I’m always like this,” Patrick tried to joke. “Especially when we’re getting drunk at my parents’ house.”

“Yeah, but, is there a problem? We’ve done this before.”

“I’m good.”

“Crap day at school?”

“Same as always.”

Brushing a fluff of hair from his face, Patrick returned to the pantry. That had better not be their only bag of chips! He didn’t want to be interviewed for a minute more, and, for once, he wished to be forgotten about. His thoughts of Mr. Wentz and what they could be doing tonight seemed to be leaking, and he didn’t understand how to handle them. Or himself. He felt so obvious he couldn’t stand it. Hiding among the snacks and canned goods was the best plan he had. 

Robbie continued with his crescendo of a question, “Who did you sneak out to see last weekend?”

“.. No one important. It’s a fling, nothing else.”


	8. Chapter 8

Pete looked at his grocery list. The note had been scrawled after finishing a bit of early morning grading, a coffee stain on the top edge. All he needed was in the cart, minus the vegetables. His stomach remained flat and toned, knowing he couldn’t keep it unless he continued with his healthy diet. He frowned and headed toward the produce section. Spinach, kale, broccoli.. He counted off the items, painfully green compared to the red meat and white bread he craved. Sweets were high on his cravings list, as well, and glanced over his shoulder when thoughts of Patrick sprang forth. 

One more thing.

At this grocery store, there were several aisles at the front dedicated to medicine and personal products. He navigated quickly, the condoms on one of the bottom shelves. He chose the first box he saw and tossed it in the cart. The last time he had bought condoms was probably in college, his ex having used birth control once they began going steady. He hurried away, both from those memories and the aisle, the check out lines not far off. Involuntarily, he patted his back pocket for his wallet. He found a spot in a shorter line, forced to take in the decorations that had been spewed throughout the store’s entrance. 

Despite it being November, late in the month, Christmas trimmings eclipsed any traces of Thanksgiving. It was obnoxiously festive. Inflatable reindeer and clipped holly berries welcomed customers, signs declaring sales for holiday dinner fixings hanging above. He was glad that he didn’t have to deal with any of this beyond the pre-winter break party for the school’s staff. Yet how was it already that time of year? How long had it been?

He shifted from foot to foot, hearing his hip pop somewhere in between. The running shoes he wore shaped to his movements, the soles ready to fray further. It was tough to feel grounded.

Patrick had been more vocal about expressing his desires with each visit. His voice gentle while his flesh tightened with lust. They had been together for close to two months, their sessions growing lengthier and more intimate. The kid wore him out. In a good way. It hadn’t been a surprise to have sex put on the table in the past couple of weeks. And to do it, he was going to do it right. Respectfully, earnestly. The condoms were equally as important as the timing. 

A Cosmopolitan magazine on a packed plastic rack screamed ‘SEX: Are you getting what you need?’. His eyes rolled to the ceiling.

Pete hadn’t had actual intercourse in almost a year. And that had been with a woman whose age wouldn’t disgust modern society. Of course he was anxious, terrified even. Nevertheless, he would try, because, yes, he was dying for some action. He had been masturbating on a daily basis to deal with the building frustration. Imagining those plump lips calling his name to help him finish.

Patrick adored his kisses and touches, their moments so tender. He didn’t want to fuck that up by being a bad fuck! 

On that note, he realized he should buy lube. He was certain that nothing would make sex with a male virgin worse than poor lubrication. He excused himself out of the line and returned to the previous aisle. The lube he grabbed was the only one that didn’t have something along the lines of ‘For her pleasure’ or ‘She’ll tingle on contact’. 

Dropping it in the cart, Pete felt the need to glance over his shoulder again. He was paranoid. Of what, exactly, he couldn’t say. His relationship with Patrick in general? Buying items for the bedroom in a public space had always been awkward, being a teacher for high schoolers. The worry of being spotted was a constant one. It had become extra uncomfortable with a forbidden lover on his plate. A chance of being exposed on Patrick’s part was forever a possibility. A final glance over his shoulder. His guilty subconscious told him people were judging him, that they were aware of what he was doing. They weren’t. A laugh from a young woman on her cell phone passing by startled him. He damn near clutched at his chest.

Sometimes, it was hard to be the adult. He had to be brave for them both.

\---

Nested in the sheets of Mr. Wentz’s bed, Patrick waited. He wasn’t quite undressed, his briefs kept on and a borrowed sweater the replacement for his own t-shirt. It smelled like Mr. Wentz and had a threaded image of Cookie Monster on the front. The bed smelled great, too, fabric softener and shampoo tickling his nose. He loved it.

He had arrived around twenty minutes ago, freshly-showered and a lie about a date with a non-existent Katie dropped into the minds of his parents. The dim house had greeted him per usual, Mr. Wentz stuck in his teacher clothes from earlier that day. There had been an offer to join him in the shower, and he shakily declined on the basis that he was already clean. Which he realized was lame and wished he had been cool and gone with the flow. Steam slithered out from the connected bathroom, the water tunneling down the drain on the other side. The goosebumps on his calves peaked higher and he shuddered. He was eager.

Patrick noticed the iPod docking station on the facing the bed, and he perked. Oh, music would be a lifesaver! Without a television or a record player in the room, he had become aware of the dead air. He wondered if he could plug in his iPod, the device on the nightstand beneath his cell phone. Stretching for it, he saw the box of condoms at the furthest edge. He would be lying if he said they didn’t intimidate him. He toyed with the idea of taking one out. 

No time, he snatched his hand back at the sound of the bathroom door opening. He pressed deeper into the mattress.

“Hey,” Mr. Wentz said. The towel tucked at his waist hung low, the one at his shoulders rubbing at the droplets behind his ears. He turned off the light above the sink, now only illuminated by lamp in the opposite corner. 

“Hey.”

Patrick adjusted, straightening his posture and folding his hands together. It reminded him of being in class. He stared.

“Mr. Wentz?”

“Hm?”

“Can I put on some of my music?” Patrick asked. “I promise you’ll like it, and I won’t turn it too loud.”

Pete smiled, gesturing to the docking station. There was a pause before Patrick lifted himself from the bed. 

“I keep telling you about these guys, and I know you haven’t listened to them. So here, hah,” Patrick scolded playfully. He clicked his iPod into place and scrolled through his collection of The Academy Is… and waved off the excuse he heard. _Fast Times at Barrington High_ is what he settled on, pushing play after decreasing the volume. It became a hum.

“Is this the band with the ‘hot’ lead singer?” Pete chuckled, the towel dropped from his shoulders. He was sitting on the bed. “How do I know you won’t be imagining him instead of me?”

Patrick shook his head, “No way. William’s hot, but he’s not you. You’re, like, you’re real. I have you here.”

“That’s true.”

“And you look so good.”

Taking Patrick’s closest wrist, Pete pulled him in for a kiss. As he stood, he had sweaty fingertips touching at the hem of his towel. He leaned away, testing, “Can you give me a stronger adjective than ‘good’?”

Teacher-student dynamic. There were times that he couldn’t help it.

“.. Handsome, gorgeous..”

“That’s better. Tell me more.”

Patrick stumbled, the description a challenge with new kisses planted along his throat, growing into a blush like tiny roses. He tried, “Stunning, a-and sumptuous..”

“Perfect. Get in bed.”

With the first chords of “His Girl Friday”, fitting for the end of the week, they lay down. Groping and smacking, the music wasn’t enough to bury their noises. Patrick’s sweater was suddenly more snug than he would prefer, heat consuming him, and Pete’s towel clung by the dips of his hips. Their mouths busy tasting the familiar flavor of one another.

Curtains drawn, cell phones on silent, and focus locked, the world eluded them. They were alone in the best way. Innocent. 

Pete had yet to be fully stripped for Patrick. The gasp he heard when he slipped off the second towel wasn’t a surprise, although it flattered and aroused him. From his position on top, he reclined to give an improved view of what he was offering. He flexed a bit, muscles and tattoos on display. Anyone with a dating history beyond their teenaged years would find this pretty douchey, but he was confident his audience would enjoy it. He dared to bask in the immaturity.

“Patrick,” Pete whispered, guiding hands to trace from his nipples to his ribs to his navel. He reached out to cup Patrick’s cheek. “You meant everything?”

Patrick was confused. His hands were currently touching the velvety hairs at the base of Mr. Wentz’s cock. He raised an eyebrow, barely managing to look up.

“How you were describing me. You meant it?”

“I meant,” Patrick started, wanting to be articulate. He couldn’t. Living a fantasy within a fantasy made words the least of his concerns. “Fuck yes. Fuck _yes_. You’re exactly what I said. And all that, the stuff I said about you being real - that’s the one part I’m not sure on. To me, you’re.. you’re a dream.”

For the cloud-dwelling romantic in Pete, the words were a feast to be devoured. To have it affirmed that this wrong was a right because of how intensely Patrick felt was the most beautiful thing in the world. He was delighted by the genuine given affection, his brain weak due to the dopamine rush. He had needed this. What they had was important to him, and ignoring the fact made it worse. 

The rest of him, his outer self, sensed how desperately horny they both were, and he lunged. 

There were a few hitches in Patrick’s breathing when they fell backward. A warmth of anticipation spread across his skin. Mr. Wentz squeezing his ass with one hand, and shoving the sweater above his stomach with the other. It was weird having clothes on as someone’s nude body was flattened against you. He supposed that’s why he was being undressed. It would be better to be on equal ground. Lips were on his exposed chest, wet and full of pressure. Dizziness blurred forth from the back of his head without warning. There were spots in his vision. 

He remembered the day he had been late to Mr. Wentz’s class, the following afternoon causing him to recognize his attraction. The nausea he had experienced before turning the door’s handle and being directed to his seat. Right now, he could taste that similar sickness bubbling in his stomach, creeping toward his throat. He ignored it. Whenever he was misbehaving, breaking the rules - his natural instinct, this nausea, kicked in and told him to stop. He was always able to fight past it, though this was the most rebellious thing he had ever done. Sex with a partner that was much older, experienced, authoritative..

Pete was moving fast. He wasn’t thinking beyond his own satisfaction. Well, sort of. He wanted to make him cum and then fuck him until he did the same. The first part wouldn’t take long, he knew that was a given. He wasn’t smug about it, either. The kid was just sensitive and suffering from severe fascination. A fascination that was important to him.

At Patrick’s cock, the briefs clinging to those buttery thighs, he steadied his gaze. Sucking dick was an act he had done for the first time last week, the success he found due to a lack of experience on the receiving end. He had done what he himself enjoyed for a basic blowjob, like the careful avoidance of teeth and swallowing. Gulping a burst of cum hadn’t been his favorite thing they had done, and it only went over smoothly because he there hadn’t been much of a choice. Patrick had shot his load so abruptly, it had rushed past his tongue. Not a taste to be found.

Pete hadn’t completely cleared the mental hurdle, years of reinforced masculinity demanded that he be ashamed. He put the tip in his mouth. A whimper begged him to keep going. He slid to the base, an easy task without it being too stiff. 

Wait.

Removing his mouth after a minute, Pete asked, “Is this okay? I can, you know, change what I’m doing.”

Patrick snapped into an awareness of his flaccid cock. On his elbows, he tried to make a face that didn’t seem emotionally pained. He wavered.

“No, I-- You’re doing great. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I don’t know why I can’t, uhm, get hard.”

Pete used the leverage he had to roll to the left side where he had some space and a pillow. He covered his lower half with the sheets, the swell of his erection fading at Patrick’s hesitation. He should have been going slower, damn it. Before he turned to the younger man, he knocked the box of condoms into the nightstand’s drawer. He figured that was part of the issue.

Patrick’s teeth were grit in nervous frustration, “I don’t want to be a virgin anymore. I’m done.”

Classroom voice coming out naturally, Pete flatlined, “That’s fine.”

“Mr. Wentz!”

“What?”

With a scoff, Patrick dramatically shrugged his shoulders and said, “So does this mean we’re not doing it? Really? That, that’s complete bullshit and you know it.”

Pete faced him. No, there was no way he could do this. Not tonight. He wasn’t the best at reading people, he preferred books, of course; but Patrick was a simple case. A small soul with a big heart on his sleeve. And he couldn’t ignore what it was showing him.

“We can’t,” Pete started, “and I’m sorry. I know I promised for tonight and everything.. You’re not ready. I can see that.”

“I am ready! I want it! You’re supposed to take my virginity,” Patrick argued, his tone whiny. 

“Hush. Virginity is a social construct.”

“Ugh!”

With that last line, he had flashbacks to teaching _The Bell Jar_ to an advanced group of seniors during his first year. The novel dealt with issues such as the exploration and empowerment of one’s sexuality, especially for those who are naive. It had been a difficult unit, with the light bulbs he had watched flicker on for his students worth it in the end. They had been able to take the mature themes and positively internalize them. That had been the first time a student thanked him for sharing and studying a piece of literature.

Maybe he could lend Patrick a copy? It might interest him more than their argumentative essay unit. He could persuade him by telling him that it was a turn-on to have an understanding of Sylvia Plath’s truths about human passions and the fears that intertwined with them. 

Groaning and hating how he continuously reversed into a school reference, he added, “I’ll fuck you next time.”


	9. Chapter 9

Pete didn’t know what to do.

It was the second to last day before winter break, and Patrick hadn’t been to his house in over two weeks. He hated it and, unfortunately, he was the one saying ‘Now’s not a good time’.

His parents were in town for the holidays. The heating was broken. He had a cold. 

Those were the excuses he had given. Word vomit smeared down his chin for each Friday Patrick approached him after class. A shrug and a suggestion to get going to the next class usually following. It was pathetic, and it was working. So far. 

Eventually, he was going to have to fuck him. To claim his spot as the first to fully have him. He had promised. And he wanted to, truly, he did. An unstained part of such a young, supple body, waiting for him to dig into. Shit, he was disgustingly excited. There was just a lot of.. Guilt? Fear? An swarm of uncomfortable emotions buzzed at the reasonable part of his brain whenever he considered it. 

For now, making out and feeling up in his locked classroom would have to suffice. 

Pete had Patrick up against the supply cabinet near the set of spare desks. Hard metal and fluorescent lighting ruining much of the romantic vibe. At a quarter to eight on a Thursday. His hands were in that dirty blonde hair, his own erection squeezed through his pants. He wanted to take them off. He grunted. No. Instead, he dropped his hands and undid the maroon skinny jeans in front of him. Patrick’s gut was freed, and he immediately began to touch along the skin where the jeans’ waistband had left its mark. Little patterns on that baby fat. He reached inside the briefs below.

“What, stopped shaving for me?” Pete said huskily, fingers caressing the curls around the swollen cock. “Not that I mind.”

Patrick spat, “I don’t care what you mind. ‘Sides, we haven’t been regular or whatever.”

“Sorry?”

There was a thrust in response. 

Annoyed with the attitude, though he couldn’t completely fault him, Pete kissed him and began to work in quick jerks. The silky veins pumping with warmth, balls brushing past his wrist. He felt the kid throb in his palm and continued, personal needs on hold. This would be easy, and, sadly, reminiscent of pity sex. He had to remember that this was temporary.

“Mr. Wentz, you, fuck, _slow down_ ,” Patrick hissed. He sucked in air so fast it became chilled and made his teeth ache.

“Shh.”

“You’re goddamn attacking m-my dick.”

“ _Shh_!”

Patrick fell back into the kiss. He had to. It was fierce and focused, the hairs of Mr. Wentz’s beard no longer seeming to tickle him. Huh, he figured he was used to it. He tried to turn his head slightly, only to be reeled in by a slithering tongue. He gulped a mouthful of saliva and savored the backwashed bitterness of today’s coffee. 

“Look at you, so happy to share your morning wood with me,” he heard Mr. Wentz say. His lips remained parted in surprise and Mr. Wentz’s were below his left ear, creating condensation as he spoke. Unnatural dewdrops that he wasn’t over the moon about. The rhythmic rubbing of his cock was sharpened with each word. He didn’t understand why things were being, almost, sort of, forced along here, and he wanted to ask. The question began to form.

“Wha.. Why..?”

Pete dipped into the crook of Patrick’s neck, in no mood for further conversation. Or even looking at him. He knew their intimacy hadn’t been at its strongest lately, and he doubted that a hand job before first hour was the best time to start repairs. They would have time to figure this out over winter break. Probably. 

A spill of precum dampened his closed fist and encouraged him.

“I know how much you need this, Patrick,” he breathed. The pink tip of that cock slapped to his full lower belly for every jerk. “Soon, soon I’ll be too busy to touch you. I’ll be in your ass, blowing my load long after you think you’ve had enough. So enjoy. _This_.”

A few more cooed obscenities, and Patrick released into the waiting hand, Pete promptly walking to the classroom sink and washing off. Gaze averted, water blasting. It had ended, and they were briefly alone with their thoughts while they tidied up. 

Patrick, wiping a smear of sweat from his forehead, asked, “This weekend, right?”

“Yeah..?”

“I can come over?”

Pete coughed, the back of his hand covering his mouth. He then turned toward the door, close to wishing someone burst through and wreck any attempts at making plans. It didn’t happen, and he became responsible for addressing the issue. He tightened his necktie.

“You can come over.”

“Well, what time? Tomorrow?”

Patrick’s brow wrinkled, the gap widening between them with Mr. Wentz’s footsteps. A murmur had been given for an answer, and he was magically interested in unpacking his shoulder bag. He was stalling, undeniably. He lay his cell phone and a thick folder out on his desk, the mouse of his computer wiggled to wake it from stand by. 

“We’ll talk about this more after class today. I’ve got to run to the copy room, stay here if you like,” Pete said flatly.

Abandoned a moment later, Patrick huffed to himself. What did he have to do to get a piece of action? He didn’t know what game was being played here, what avoidance, only knew that he was sick of it. He refused to be ignored. Nodding, he moved to the desk, a plan at the edges of his mind. 

_4, 5, 6, 8._

He was correct, the screen unlocked. Having watched Mr. Wentz fidget with his cell phone enough times allowed him to decipher the code. He simply hadn’t had the chance to test out the numbers. A smile brightened his expression and he instinctively glanced at the door handle. He had to hurry.

Tapping the keyboard’s envelope icon, he opened the text messaging function. He was tempted to scroll through the inbox to see who Mr. Wentz had been talking to, with several interesting names at the top. He resisted, deciding to save that for a rainy day, and created a new text to his number, nothing more than a single frowny face in the message box. The tiny buttons of the Sidekick actually made typing a pain in the ass, and he wondered how the man did it so well.

Once his cell phone had received it, he deleted the thread from Mr. Wentz’s sight. Evidence was his nemesis. He quit the inbox and relocked the screen with a click on the sidebar, a pitstop made at the volume control to crank it to the max. Should he have a bit of luck, that would go unnoticed. Finally, the layout of the items was fixed to appear unconcerned. At a desk, he sat with his head pressed to his folded arms and his backpack slung to the floor, bored. In reality, he was hiding a smirk.

God, at last. He had his number.

\---

Late to sixth period that same day, Patrick sighed when he was waved to his seat. He ignored Mr. Wentz’s instructions to take out his composition book, his hoodie pulled up. He thought about the supply cabinet and what they had done in here, wishing he had gotten his jizz on the man’s clothes. Would have been funny to have him clean a goop-stained shirt prior to a day of teaching.

“Again, I need your composition book out. Oh, and I’ll take last night’s reading comprehension questions, as well,” Pete said, his voice low. He didn’t want to disturb the other students during their work time. His right knuckles involuntarily rapped on Patrick’s desk.

“I didn’t do the homework,” Patrick told him. He dragged his tattered composition book from his backpack, most pages blank, and put in in his lap. The pen he had been clicking went to his mouth, where he bit the tip. With direct eye contact.

Those who sat within earshot perked their heads. They had heard the tone, the defiance in the kid’s words. It was known that he could be disrespectful. And the more time Pete took to return fire, the more amused stares and muffled giggles he sensed around him. He straightened his posture, arms folded and garnering fresh attention.

“Any particular reason why you didn’t do it?”

“Uh, I dunno. This class gives me nightmares.”

Had any other student not been alerted to what was happening, they were now.

Patrick grinned, several of the gigglers becoming louder and his name said in curiosity. A girl at the front scoffed.

“Hilarious. I’ll be sure to let your parents know that with a phone call after class. Get started on the assignment,” Pete said, returning to circulate the classroom. Everyone aimed their noses at their composition books. “The rest of you, I appreciate you working hard.”

Free write Mondays had been replaced with reflection Thursdays. Obviously, it was an analysis of how the week was going, what they liked, what they didn’t, plans, blah, blah.. It was more structured than what they had previously done in the composition books, although nobody cared to complain. They did what they were asked of, took their grades, and had the weeks slide by. Aside from Patrick. Especially today.

The pen he had bit while sassing Mr. Wentz was, at this very second, half-way into his mouth. Plastic and salt from his fingerprints coated his taste buds, his legs lazily spread and heels rolling. For the split-second he had those frustrated teacher eyes on him, he puckered his lips against the pen and then popped it loose. The squirm of embarrassment he saw outshone his own.

Patrick waited. He wanted to have Mr. Wentz immersed in conducting the class before diving into the real fun. Since, supposedly, his parents were going to be called, he was going to go ahead make it a good story. For friends and classmates alike. His stomach churned in anticipation. Disappointing Mom and Dad wasn’t his preferred way to spend an afternoon, it was unfortunate collateral from his behavior choices. He didn’t have to do this, the burning plan could be extinguished. But.

His cell phone was snuck from his hoodie’s pouch. It was hot in his grip. 

Pete was soon occupied, the whiteboard filled with an example outline of a comparison essay, which they would begin writing after winter break. To the sarcastic joy of the class, per usual. He had made a joke about their lack of excitement. Patrick’s obnoxious outburst was already shooed from his mind. Professionally, and without a misstep. Less than twenty minutes in the period, he hustled through the major points he needed to cover. Using his favorite green whiteboard marker, he drew an arrow to tie together two sections of the example that should correlate with each other. Suddenly, both shoulders crinkled in visible distress the instant he heard it: Incoming text messages on his cell phone, perfectly audible and glowing beneath a spare worksheet.

_Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!_

“Ooh! Busted!”

“Geez, that’s loud.”

“Hahah!”

Gracelessly whipping toward the source of the noise, Pete was bombard with comments from students and an overall shuffling of butts in chairs. The calm he had established was gone. He set down the whiteboard marker and reached for the phone, any student who hadn’t realized it was his fault for the disruption joining in on the heckling. He held his free hand to the ceiling in a command for silence. It didn’t help much, requiring him to clear his throat.

“Thank you all for being mature and--”

Cut off, Pete’s cell phone was ringing due to an incoming call. A generic ringtone he had set ages ago, without the expectation that it would be fodder for this nonsense. More jeers, of course, were the reaction. He dropped the phone’s volume to zero and checked who in the name of all that is sane was bothering him in the middle of a school day. It was an unsaved number, local area code. He ended the call and the screen shifted to display the text messages from that same number. His expression narrowed upon reading them, swiftly and unintentionally. Fucking fantastic. He understood what was happening. He dropped the stupid device into an open desk drawer and slammed it shut, several kids jumping to silence.

He pointed at Patrick, whose cell phone was so blatantly in his hand. A rough gesture was made to the door. Everyone was watching. 

“Apologies for my phone going off. But that’s not an excuse for yours to be out. Get to the detention room,” Pete commanded. Even behind his desk, the irritation he projected towered over the students.

The young man didn’t budge, “It’s important, okay? I just need to send one more message. My girlfriend’s being a bitch lately, she won’t put out.”

“Language!”

“.. She’s a bitch.”

“Patrick Stump,” Pete directed, barely keeping below a roar, “get out of my classroom! That, your attitude has no place here.”

Pissed and ashamed and horny, a torrent of feelings drowning him, Patrick stood. He yanked his backpack off the floor and dumped his composition book and pen on purpose. The pages exposed and the pen clattered. The tunnel vision he had prodded him to continue lashing out, a snap decision needing to be made. Make it hurt for Mr. Wentz, like how he was doing to him, fuck, he was craving some self-perceived justice. His legs were shaking.

A skinny boy in the seat ahead of him scooted away to make room, both frightened and intrigued to witness what happened next. The room had transformed into a field of eggshells, difficult to navigate. More so because this lunatic still had to walk past the teacher.

Pete didn’t move, receiving daggers glared in his direction by Patrick. Rusty, flaming daggers. He had nothing else to say, and he prayed that Patrick didn’t, either. They would be discussing this later in private. Or that’s what he assumed, anyway. Who knew? This could be a way of signaling that they shouldn’t have anything to do with one another. Worse, it was the beginning of their relationship’s reveal. His heartbeat pounded blood to his ears as pale fingers clutched the doorknob.

Patrick exited into the hallway quietly. It wasn’t until he had closed the door behind him that he screamed. It echoed in the hallways, a vicious serenade.

“Fuck yooouuu! Cocksucking son of a BITCH!”


	10. Chapter 10

Two hours after their little show in front of the class, Pete and Patrick were seated in Mr. Watts’ office. The principal, affectionately known as ‘Sunshine’ among the staff, was a portly man with slicked gray hair and an affinity for peace. Unaffectionately known as ‘Dickhead’ among the students. 

The final bell for the day had rung ten minutes ago. Patrick scowled in a chair angled at the wall, Pete keeping his fingers laced and posture perfect in the chair beside him. 

“I read the write-up, Mr. Wentz, quite the incident,” Mr. Watts puzzled, a nod given to them both. He pressed his lips, stiff with apprehension, and cleared his throat. “But there seems to be some issues on your end, too. Your tone in this write-up is less than ideal.”

Pete’s mouth opened, a hand pointing to himself in silent disbelief. His tone? Less than ideal!? He spoke carefully, “Sir, I’m, I apologize. I don’t understand.”

“He’s saying you’re a goddamn--”

Mr. Watts silenced them with a sweeping gesture. Above, the heat rumbled on and created a background hum within the boxy office. He warned, “Patrick, enough. I’ll let you know when I need you to speak your piece.”

Irritated, Patrick didn’t push it. He saw the directory on a shelf behind the principal's desk, where he remembered Robbie had snatched the address that had shoved this story into motion. On the floor, he noticed that the heel of his right combat boot was an inch from Mr. Wentz’s shiny, shitty dress shoe. He jerked away. Dirt was smudged into the carpet, a sizeable stain.

“You were very aggressive in this,” Mr. Watts said, tapping the write-up. It was ironic that Patrick’s aggression on the floor went unseen. “That’s unusual for you.. Has this been building up? Lots of trouble in class lately?”

“No, he’s, no. I wouldn’t say so.”

“Then what’s going on?”

Pete was stuck, the air around him too hot. He had been emotional during the paperwork to send Patrick to the detention room and then to the principal’s office, yes, but he shouldn’t be on trial here. Why require an explanation of him? That should fall on the stubborn shoulders of the misbehaving student. He heard a snort next to him.

Patrick was raising his hand, wrist limp and stare glazed.

“Go ahead. Mind your mouth,” Mr. Watts warned him. His focus was now shifted. He leaned back and watched the kid’s hand drop.

“I try to ask him for help on stuff,” Patrick said, pointing rudely at Mr. Wentz, “and every time he brushes me off. Pretty sure he’s hoping I’ll just go away. So, today I had it - I got mad.”

“Mm, that’s very articulate of you,” Mr. Watts said. He was being genuine, though the young man’s scrunched features radiated disbelief. “Really, that feels fair. However, is it true you were texting in class? Mr. Wentz asking you to stop and you began swearing, especially on your way out?”

“.. Yeah, I guess.”

“You and I both know that’s uncalled for. If you feel you’re not getting the help you need in class, you should be coming to a counselor. Lashing out isn’t the answer.” Mr. Watts turned to Pete and continued, “I’m inclined to believe Patrick when he tells me you’ve been ‘brushing him off’. The way you spoke about him in your write-up feels cruel.”

“Yes, Sir,” Pete flatlined.

“Now, what can we do to solve this?”

Pete smiled awkwardly. What could he say? The strains on their secret intimacies was the root cause for this madness. He had to be mature and suggest a solution, one that didn’t involve the truth. Fucking the kid was career suicide if heard by the principal’s ears, not a solution. He wished he had already done it, this situation avoided altogether. He was in deep, honestly, why wait? That’s what Patrick craved from him, an unhealthy mindset for a relationship that shouldn’t exist. His smile faltered.

“Hm, Mr. Wentz? He’s yours, you should decide,” Mr. Watts said. 

“What?” Pete blinked.

“I said he’s your student, you should decide.”

“Oh,” Pete murmured. Fixing his posture, he offered, “I don’t believe he should be formally punished. The behavior and language he used were inappropriate, of course, but I’ll take responsibility. I’ll do after school tutoring with him to help him thrive in my class.”

Mr. Watts scratched at the side of his neck, the wrinkly skin wobbling. He listened, and looked to the pouting junior for an opinion.

Patrick rolled his shoulders, “I dunno. If I have to.”

“It’s either that or a parent conference and a suspension.”

The anger Patrick had experienced was fading. It took a lot of energy to stay pissed, and it didn’t help to watch Mr. Wentz be somewhat reprimanded and still choose to support him. He quietly appreciated it. And he hoped that after school tutoring would be done in the raw, under sheets. His grade in the class was the absolute last thing on his thirsty mind. His ankles uncrossed and he agreed to the terms. He was soon dismissed and went to wait outside of the front office area, the adults discussing whatever it was that he wasn’t supposed to be a part of. He rounded the corner that led to the 700’s, squashed against the stucco wall. He mulled over how to say thanks without sounding grateful, his heart rate spiking a bit.

Pete walked past him. Not a flash of acknowledgement, footsteps echoed and hurried on the linoleum.

\---

_Outside._

The text beeped on Patrick’s screen. He was frightened for a moment, the sender’s name something out of a fever dream. It was Mr. Wentz. 

He rolled out of his duvet, the threadbare patterns clinging to his legs. He kicked free and moved to his bedroom’s single window. Its square shape was small and poor at providing much light from the streetlamps. Not that he had particularly wanted that, he had been busy sulking, the best way to enjoy the first weekend of winter break. Christmas was the following Wednesday. 

He squinted out the window. A car was idling across the street, someone inside. He double checked the text message.

_Outside._

Yanking on a sweatshirt and not bothering to change his plaid pajama bottoms, he escaped downstairs. The knitted gray socks given to him by his grandmother as an early gift were crammed into his snow boots at the front door. No actual snow had been seen lately, it was just fucking cold out. He was a mismatched mess, ruffled hair and sleep-sprinkled eyes included. It didn’t matter, though, he had to see if this was really happening. He silently stepped past the welcome mat.

He waved at the car and walked forward. At a meter away, the doors clicked unlocked. 

“Wow, it’s you,” Patrick said, the passenger door opened and his ass sliding onto the seat. “Interestin’.”

“I’m the one who texted you, aren’t I?” Pete grumbled. He turned the heat to its highest setting.

“I was worried it was a trap. Maybe some kidnappers or something.”

“You’re hardly a kid.”

Pete sighed and stirred, the soft chuckle he heard from Patrick giving him a shiver. He was on edge, the zipped collar of his old Volcom coat a noose around his neck. What were the chances of them being caught? Of course, it depended on so, so many things. Mostly on how this conversation was going to play out, in which he supposed laughter was a steady start. He exhaled, nostrils flaring. Jumping the gun ahead of his anxiety, already stretching its prickly neck, was terrifying for him. The drive alone had taken an hour of mental preparation, choked paranoia aside. He faced him, dark gaze catching the glimmer of a stoplight up the street. 

“I’ve been ignoring you,” he said. His chapped lips were licked, “I know you have needs and I haven’t been paying attention.”

Patrick tilted his head. 

“And I’m sorry. It’s not right for me to do that to you.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“It must be tough, being a mess of hormones and all..”

“Hey, gross!” Patrick chimed in with. He pretended to wretch while folding his arms. “No one wants to hear ‘bout that!”

Pete reached to touch that dirty blonde hair, saying, “Well, you weren’t answering. I can’t do everything here. You need to help, too.”

The strands were oily, stuck together in certain spots. He liked it, his fondness increased by the fact that he wasn’t being rejected. He stroked the hair he managed to gather into a neat bundle behind Patrick’s ear. 

“Mr. Wentz,” Patrick said. There was a pause, his body leaning in. He figured the touches meant that getting fully physical was up for grabs. No pun intended. “Kiss me. Fucking kiss me, okay?”

“Let’s talk first.”

“No!”

Patrick missed, having swung in. He was now hovering over the emergency break with Mr. Wentz’s back to the window. It was a bad look for him. Confused, he legitimately was at a loss for what he had done wrong. They should be forgetting what had happened in school this week, in the way they knew best.

Pete was adamant, “Patrick, don’t. We have to talk. Sit.”

“All right, geez!” Patrick fussed, completely uncaring in how he kicked at the dashboard. “Don’t tell me to sit. I’m not a dog.”

“Fine, you--”

“And according to you, I’m not a kid! So what am I? Huh!?” Patrick’s inflection was hostile. His breath was heavy, fogging his window and flecks of saliva hitting the glass. He was mimicking his classroom antics and desperately wanted a reaction. A better one than being sent to the detention room. 

It was unpleasant to watch, Pete swearing the tingles in his scalp were his hairs graying with stress. Or the onset of a headache. He tried to remember that this wasn’t entirely his fault, that there were growing pains involved. 

“What fucking _ever_ ,” Patrick growled as he leaned out of their shared space. Blindly, he fumbled for the door handle to make an exit. He heard the locks click and was gripped by the crook of his elbow. “No, you’re, no--”

“We’re going to talk!”

Pete felt like an absolute creep. A first-rate slimeball; preventing a minor from leaving his vehicle in the middle of the night, manipulating him through his words and actions. He almost let go.

“You’re with me,” Pete said quickly, “that’s what you are! I don’t.. I don’t know why and everything, but we’re together.”

Patrick wiggled his elbow loose, demanding, “Then why won’t you kiss me? Why won’t you _fuck_ me?”

“I mean, honestly?”

“Uh, yeah! Stop beating around the bush, asshole.”

On the street, a few speeding cars perked Pete’s ears. He realized that they had been shouting, the world susceptible to hearing them. Worse, they could wake parents. The dubious thought caused him to catch his reflection in the side view mirror. Exhausted and lacking a youthful spark. No way would anyone believe that they were close in age and free of suspicion. Definitely not with Patrick’s baby face in the mix. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m afraid. I’m scared for us. It’s.. I’ve got a decade on you, I’m your teacher,” Pete spilled, the anxieties brought to life. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Patrick said immediately, quite aware that it did matter. “No one’s ever gonna know.”

“I trust you on that,” Pete replied, only partially sure of that. 

“Then what?”

“.. Your reception and perception of this. It’s hard to want to have sex with you when you act out.”

Patrick was taken aback. He had no retort, effectively embarrassed. What Mr. Wentz was telling him, how he was being viewed, yeah, fine, he got it - he was immature and not worth the risk. Which he had proved all through his own idiotic self. He couldn’t admit it, even if he had wanted to, this new grasp on reality thrusted upon him. How dense, how unappealing he must seem. He had ice in his gut, and he knew exiting the car would freeze him over. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. 

“Are you breaking up with me?” Patrick asked, the question so cliched, yet such a fight.

Pete shook his head, “No, Patrick, please.. I need you to be patient for me. We’re not breaking up.”

He wasn’t going to add that they couldn’t break up, there had never been a formal discussion of them being a couple. Although, he was the one claiming that they were ‘together’. The instigator of their relationship and willing to drive here just to talk? A grown man gambling his livelihood for a bit of action and reimagined adolescence? He winced, the young man’s glasses failing as a floodgate for the tears. The glittery drops frightened him and he shifted.

“Don’t worry,” Pete said. He kissed Patrick’s neck and held himself there, hands squeezing a thigh and continuing, “Patience, that’s it. I’m still going through a lot with what we have. I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t. I would feel like even more of a monster if I ruined this, that’s why I haven’t had you at my place lately.”

The gentleness Mr. Wentz was displaying managed to bother Patrick in a way he couldn’t explain. His anger had run its course, and he didn’t have much left beyond a mild annoyance. He sniffled, “I think I can wait.”

“Oh, good,” Pete beamed, becoming visibly cheered. He watched the tears wiped by the sleeve of the sweatshirt, the fabric dampened. “Maybe you can come over next weekend, after the holiday? I can text you to make plans.”

Patrick grimaced, “Text? Figured you’d block my number after what I did.”

“I’ll reward your reasonable behavior by forgetting unreasonable behavior.”

“You what?”

“Since you stayed and talked with me,” Pete made a gesture between them, “you showed how reasonable you can be. Therefore, I’m willing to let the whole cell phone nonsense go.”

“Hah, that’s stupid,” Patrick laughed. He put his hands up defensively in response to the glare he received. He couldn’t help the laugh, it was a good distraction from how distraught he had been earlier. Being some kind of reasonable sucked, and his whirlwind emotions made it nearly impossible. “Sorry. You’ve got me feeling crazy, sometimes I wonder, like, how this isn’t a dream.”

Yawning, Pete had returned to sit on his side of the car, the anticipation for more kisses abandoned. He looked away at the phrase ‘feeling crazy’.

Patrick went on, “Hey, I’ll text you, okay? And I’ll try and be patient about all this bullshit.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah. Uhm, Mr. Wentz?”

Pete heard the nervousness and he frowned in concern, not ready for another round of tears. He faced the young man and couldn’t discern his expression, a strange blend of hopefulness and fear. Cautiously, he hummed, “Hm?”

“Let’s go on a date.”


	11. Chapter 11

Patrick sat on his bed, popping the same knuckles over and over. His pale skin was pinched with color. He had already tried to upchuck the fear he was experiencing, unsuccessful and dry heaving into the toilet. It had made him feel nasty enough to rewash his face and rebrush his teeth. He smelled like drugstore brand cleanser and mint.

Ten minutes until he was supposed to go.

Mr. Wentz had agreed to a date! A very secret, very short date tonight. He had been obscenely giddy all week, more so since the activity was kept a surprise. He had been told to wear comfy shoes for his singular hint. It was Saturday, the sun set hours ago, stars hidden by January clouds. This was the final weekend before school was back in session, the weather frigid with encouragement for most people to bunk in. His parents included. Fake girlfriend or not, going out this late raised too much worry. 

Slowly, Patrick had eased a hand into his briefs. He was fantasizing about the date, and in the minutes leading up to their meeting time, his arousal was bubbling to the brim. 

“Uhn,” he grunted, his cock awake in his palm. The strokes he gave were careful, ending with a tug on the head that reminded him of Mr. Wentz’s lips. Strong, quick lips that were afraid of doing something wrong, concerned that he might love sucking dick. He smiled, eyes closed and hold clenching.

Soon, Patrick fell back into old habits and was moving fast with his imagination running wild. It was so good, a pang of excitement warming his toes in a familiar way. He squirmed at the touches and chewed on his lower lip to keep quiet. He thought about what he and Mr. Wentz might do at the end of their date, how every time he touched him, he was amazed at the smooth muscles he found. They were a delicious treat that he wanted to taste, to claim. A hard body that had no problem getting hard for him. God, he prayed they would finally fuck.

“Yeah,” he faintly exclaimed. He rested at the base for a split-second to allow the orgasm to roll and float, caught somewhere in the depths of his hips. The tease he forced on himself was unpracticed and weak, though it still rocked him. “ _Yeah_..!”

Another round of stroking had him in a half-moon shape, spine curved as he came into his hand. He faced the ceiling as tremors of electricity prickled through him, his neck exposed. He rushed to the bathroom on wobbly feet to prevent drippage on the floor or his clothes. He was winded from the speed of everything, pants around his thighs as he washed off the spatter. Hot water splashed the hems of his sleeves during his reach to shut off the faucet. 

“Whoops,” Patrick said in realization. In the middle of doing a mirror check, he knew it was definitely time to head out. 

Cell phone in his jacket pocket, he crept down the stairs and out the front door. No sound was made, and the guilt was minimized to a bite-sized amount. He had become pretty talented at this. Even better, his abilities in memorization had also recently improved due to his text conversations with Mr. Wentz. 

With their last encounter being in his teacher’s car, the date permitted, Patrick had been instructed to delete their conversations any time they texted. Which meant that the details for tonight, ten on the dot at the corner of Jylon and South Somner, were in his brain. 

He didn’t really get what the big deal was. He wasn’t going to ‘tell’ on Mr. Wentz, no matter what their situation became. There would be no benefit to the school knowing, because, yes, everyone would find out no matter which authority figures he told, certain that bullying would be the most likely result. He wasn’t fully out about his sexuality, and being exposed as having a teacher as his lover was less than ideal. Shoved in the hallways, food thrown at him during lunch, the typical crap. And the name calling would range from faggot to jailbait, screeched by morons passing by on his path to sixth period, into a classroom where he would find Mr. Wentz’s replacement. No thanks. 

The walk to their meeting spot was brief, although he was unable to see his house from the corner. He figured that was the point. When he glanced at the clock on his cell phone, he read that it was three minutes past the scheduled time. Wait, what type of car did he have again? Was it black, or navy blue? He couldn’t recall the make or model, either. Just that it was a dark compact car.

Fortunately, he spotted it a moment later and hurried to the passenger’s side. The bright headlights and slowing of its wheels had helped.

“Hey,” Patrick chirped, nearly hopping in the seat. His eyes widened at the sight of Mr. Wentz, blurting, “Holy--! Whoa, that’s awesome.”

The beard had been shaved clean off. His blonde hair now a pastel pink.

\---

In preparation for an evening out with a fucking student of his, Pete had altered his appearance. Being recognized together had slim chances, and he needed to make them as borderlined to zero as possible.

The shave had made him look younger, and the hair.. Well, he sort of had a quarter life crisis thing going on. The color covered the top of his head and trickled down in a few places, his hair mainly dark in the back. But the dye was super temporary, advertised to wash out with two or three rinses. Plus, the pink matched the Aéropostale skinny jeans he had on. They were a relic from his early college days, and he had been ecstatic to have them fit the same. He had considered wearing his old glasses, too, and dropped the idea once he had chosen their date activity. Of which he had forgotten to warn Patrick.

“A concert?” 

“Yes,” Pete confirmed. His hands were stiff on the wheel, driving to a venue well past the neighborhood. “They’ll be carding because of the alcohol they serve, so you’re going to have to follow my lead. I’ll get us in.”

Patrick had a thousand questions. More urgently, he was dying to touch him. Knowing that they were headed to a concert stirred him further. Now, Mr. Wentz was different, gorgeous, and he was sure it was all for him. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

“Who’s the band?” Patrick asked. He needed to keep cool, lower his levels of wonder.

“A couple of local groups. I think you’ll like them.”

“Okay.”

On the outskirts of Chicago’s East side, they parked in a tiny lot beside a ripple of buildings. No lines were painted to create spaces, each car at a crooked angle. There were people, clustered and loud, who had created a line at the nearest door and spilled into the lot. A marquee sign read ‘Asterisk* Thtr’ in cracked letters, illuminated by a tired glow. The car was locked and they stepped onto the asphalt. Barely having time to make small talk at the end of the line, it began to move. A voice could be heard yelling towards the front.

“Let’s go,” Pete said, wary of the shuffling group. Patrick’s wrist was grabbed and he added, “You’re with me, don’t stray.”

Patrick agreed and managed to remain silent until it was their turn at the door. The sight of the bouncer caused him to gasp; the man’s face was coated in tattoo ink, numbers and bones and words in cursive that he couldn’t read, the massive muscles he carried somehow present in his neck and jaw. This guy had at least a foot on them both, and he couldn’t stop staring. 

The exchange was fast, Pete displaying his I.D. and making a point about how Patrick wasn’t a liability. They were allowed in. Patrick was bewildered, his thousand questions accidentally swallowed in a panic. Observing the ceiling’s slack copper wiring with vintage smut film posters on the walls, he would be lying if he said he was at ease.

“The openers are setting up, we should find somewhere to stand,” Pete suggested, his voice raised due to the noise level inside. Punk music dominated the speakers above, bouncing along the concrete floor. 

“What? Isn’t there a place to sit?” Patrick responded hesitantly. 

“No, this is the real deal. Standing room only.”

“Err, all right, where should we stand?”

Pete had noticed a less busy section at the venue’s rear, relieved to hear that his date didn’t want to be pressed to the stage or anything. They made their way toward it, and he was made aware of a set of sweaty fingers snaking through his own. He shook away.

“Mr. Wentz,” Patrick said while he went for another grab, “c’mon. Isn’t that part of a date?”

Pete was nervous, saying, “Yes, but-- Don’t call me that. You know, can you.. Pete’s fine.”

“Seriously?”

No, this should be a bad joke to Pete, yet he nodded in reassurance. He had to. His school title would only make them more susceptible to unwanted attention, his first name would have to do. And beating Patrick to the punch of repeating the request, he held his hand. The stage lights suddenly dimmed and then had the center ones reignite, a makeshift spotlight. A roar was created by the crowd without regard to the gangly young man rallying for their attention. He was an inaudible master of ceremonies and escaped offstage, racing the curtains. Another roar.

“Hey! What’s this group called?” Patrick asked. 

“Who knows? Let’s hope they’re good!” Pete replied. He cheered at nothing in particular, his free hand in the air. 

True to the setting, the opening band consisted of three dudes in ratty clothing that had ears pierced beyond any fleshy recognition. Their drum kit, bass, and guitar were also kind of fucked up, causing their songs to be distorted. Maybe that was the point? Nevertheless, the reception was deafening. 

Patrick was overwhelmed. It wasn’t in a bad way, no, he simply had a lot going on that he had never experienced. The most prominent being the public hand holding and basement show concert. He leaned on Mr. Wentz and made an effort to relax.

_“Here we go, fuckers! Scream for me!”_

The vocalist - guitarist? - gave the command and the crowd obeyed, Patrick’s feet made to roll with the people around them. Notions of relaxing were tossed out and he was totally clinging to Mr. Wentz, fingernails caught on his jacket’s collar. He assumed this wasn’t anything new for him, he was so steady! There was a chick on the other side of them flailing to the beat, her dreadlocks whipping dangerously close, and Mr. Wentz was unphased. In fact, he seemed to be blocking what he could in order to protect Patrick. It was hot. That, and the room was a furnace with everyone’s knitted body heat. The song reached its climax and the final notes reverberated in a flood of static from the cheap speakers.

Extended by a few crowd surfers causing havoc and the vocalist ranting about capitalism, the band’s setlist was soon on its last leg. Pete had enjoyed them, head banging when he wasn’t watching that soft golden crown tucked against him. He was careful of Patrick, especially because of his glasses that he hadn’t been mindful of during the planning. He had accepted them going on a date, however, he had mandated that he was the one to make the arrangements. Nothing cutesy or romantic, ideally a place where talking wasn’t the main focus. Going to the movies was cliché, and they both were into music, which meant that a concert was, in his opinion, the best choice. He beamed whenever he felt the kid groove to a guitar riff, felt him stomp his feet to a drum solo.

The band hollered its gratitude and were ushered off the stage, picks thrown to eager palms in the mosh pit. Patrick roughly rubbed Pete’s chest and they made eye contact.

Those blue greens sparkling, he said, “I wanna go make out somewhere.”

\---

Patrick had decided that the bathrooms were gross, and the cramped utility closet with an off limits sign was decent. In a bramble of mops and push brooms, they locked lips. To the contrary, the door was unable to be locked from the inside, Pete gluing his back to it for security. 

Like horny virgins on prom night, they were all sloppy kisses and fumbling gropes. It had been a while. Their skin was salty from the heat, tasted by parched tongues, and still better than a glass of water. Outside, the crowd was revamping with the announcement of the headlining band.

“Pete,” Patrick was panting, “I, I’m..”

“Mmhm?” Pete had to admit, there was a pleasant thrill in being called his first name. It was a turn on coming from that sweet tenor, almost begging him for something.

Patrick went on, “I’ve n-never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

“Show me. Suck me off.”

Pete tucked him down, undoing his own belt to get this shit started. He was breaking every rule, ignoring every red flag; he shouldn’t be bringing a teenager into a club, they shouldn’t be in public together to begin with, he shouldn’t be allowing his school title to be dropped, and he absolutely should not be comfortable with how dearly attached Patrick had become in these past months. It wasn’t a red flag, it was bloodied banner cresting the peak of their relationship with the winds of false hope. He refused to see it.

His erection was freed and tapped to a waiting mouth in a matter of seconds, the closet’s darkness keeping their flushed features hidden. He groaned in relief, the wet warmth such a perfect sensation. The door behind him thudded with his movements. Patrick’s knees were on the floor and he mumbled incoherently, drooling. 

_“Fate fell short this time, your smile fades in the summer.”_

Patrick removed his mouth and stood, exclaiming, “They’re doing a Blink cover! Let’s go listen, c’mon!”

“What’re, Patrick, what are you talking about?”

“Outside! Let’s go!”

Frantically redressing, Pete was left alone while Patrick slipped away. Shit, shit! He squinted out at the utility closet’s little hallway, and was alarmed by the frenzied sound of the crowd. Among them a minute later, swearing up a storm and with a half-hard cock, he scanned for his date. He stood on his tiptoes and pushed through, finding no trace of him. The further in he went, the higher his chance was for getting hurt. That rate tripled for Patrick. He wasn’t a math teacher, but _get real_ , the kid was no match for this group.

Someone kicked him in the head.

Pete looked for the offender, a crowd surfer, of course, and he put a hand skyward to block another blow. This mess didn’t need a headache. With the band telling them to jump, the crowd surfer was dropped in favor of this new activity. A terrified face turned to meet his, not actually seeing him. He watched the fall happen from a distance of about ten feet, and regretted everything in the entire history of his pathetic life.

Smacked to the concrete and engulfed by a sea of shoes, Patrick disappeared. 

Screaming his name, Pete plowed past those blocking his path. He was breathless and struggling, arms outstretched in an attempt to show that he was coming for him. To save him. From the problem he had caused.

When Patrick was yanked to a standing position, he couldn’t hold on - both hands were clutched in a ball, his left thumb bent diagonally over his knuckles.


	12. Chapter 12

“Make sure you’re taking deep breaths, stay calm!”

“Pete, I’m--”

“We’re alone now, don’t, fuck, call me ‘Mr. Wentz’!”

Patrick sighed. He performed a couple deep breaths when he had a glare thrown at him, his hands still threaded together. His instincts kept him from daring to unlock his grip. Once the injury’s initial shock had washed over him, the pain wasn’t too terrible. By the looks of it, his thumb was fractured, possibly broken - wasn’t that the same thing? - and there was no blood or bone that he could see. A bruise was beginning to appear across the side of his hand and the top of his wrist, its purpley color scarcely notable in the passenger seat of Mr. Wentz’s car. Passing streetlights and the headlights of other cars were his only occasional means of visibility.

“We’re almost there, just relax,” Pete chittered, absolutely doing his best to keep to the speed limit. Being pulled over would be a nightmare. 

“I’m fine, you relax,” Patrick said quietly.

“Patrick!”

“What!?”

Pete would have pinched at his brow in frustration if he hadn’t been so focused on catching the freeway’s next exit. The metal sign had a single ‘H’ on the bottom to indicate where they were headed. The St. Catherine Hospital was the largest in this part of the city, which he assumed would be able to get him the help he needed at this late hour. It was a few minutes past midnight. He signaled and took them onto the surface streets.

Patrick carried on, “I don’t want to yell at you, God, I just want to call you by your first name.”

“You can’t, that was a one time thing, “ Pete argued.

“That’s stupid,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes. “What about when we get to the hospital? Who are you gonna sign me in and out as? ‘Mr. Wentz’?”

“.. I don’t know.”

“I’m a minor, pretty sure I can’t go in alone.”

Pete was stressed. Patrick’s babbling didn’t help in the slightest, and his brain wanted to tune him out. But he couldn’t. This mess was his own fault, he had to clean it up before it spilled into the kid’s home life. Or school life. No one could know the truth of how they had been out tonight, what caused the injury, how the trip to the hospital happened. It was all to remain in a web of lies. Perhaps those idiotic senior buddies of his could take the blame? Either way, Patrick had to stay with him until they figured it out.

“I’ll go in with you,” Pete said, “I’ll act like I’m your friend. They shouldn’t need too much of my information.”

“Can I call you ‘Pete’, then?”

“Yes, _Christ_ , you can.. Why is that such a big deal?”

Patrick shrugged a bit, “It’s cool. I mean, I naturally want to call you ‘Mr. Wentz’, so calling you by your first name is like a treat. It’s, like, inappropriate.”

He grinned in secret, head down. Names were the least inappropriate problem here. His hand throbbed and the expression faltered. 

In the hospital’s visitor parking lot, they took a moment’s pause after finding an open space. People were entering and exiting the main building at a steady pace, an ambulance driving past them with its sirens on. The scene was noisy and brighter than expected, both of their anxiety levels spiking. The night weighed upon them, eager to scrutinize their dilemma. 

Pete’s voice was gentle, shutting off the engine, “You hurt your thumb during a move. We dropped a dresser on it. I’m your friend and nothing more. That’s your story, you’re going to have to do most of the talking.”

“Got it. Want me to repeat it back to you?” Patrick teased, referring to the detectable teacher tone.

“No. Please don’t get us in trouble.”

In the main lobby, Patrick managed to explain the reason for their visit to the nice lady behind the patient check-in counter. She nodded and informed him that since it was a non-emergency, they could wait here, motioning in the direction of the chairs and couches facing a flat screen television, for the next available doctor. She asked him to sign in and he blinked slowly.

“Uhm, Pete? Can you do it for me? My hand hurts,” Patrick informed him. He perked at the lady’s sympathetic coo, her stiletto nails clinking against the candy dish to give him a lollipop. 

While the two of them laughed over silliness of it, the lady unwrapping the candy for him and laying it on his waiting tongue, Pete was left with a struggle. He picked up the pen laying on the very official-seeming hospital log book, and hovered with it over the next blank entry box. Fuck, he hated himself. He began to write, changing how he printed the words, making them blockier than usual with the numbers for the date and time slanted. His shoulders were hunched, and he cursed his hair’s abnormal color. He didn’t want to stick out, and yet he felt like the most obvious criminal in the whole world. 

“Let’s go,” he murmured to Patrick when he had finished. “You need to sit down.”

In the waiting area, they sluggishly saw the better part of a half hour go by on Pete’s cell phone. He was relentless in how often he checked the time, about every three minutes, worried that there would somehow be a text message from the Stumps with a demand for their son’s return. Remorse soaked him to the soul. He continued advising Patrick to take deep breaths and relax, his own body winded and rigid. He couldn’t believe he had let this happen, and he was desperate to end this disaster of a date. What an irresponsible asshole he was! And worse, the more time spent in public view, albeit in a hospital, the higher risk they ran of being caught. 

Patrick’s full name was called by a nurse. Pete nearly leapt out of his chair.

“I’ll be here when you’re done. You’ll be all right, I promise,” Pete told him. He realized Patrick was unable to speak with the lollipop in his mouth, and he plucked it away.

“Thanks. See you soon,” Patrick answered. 

Concerned, Pete watched him go. The lollipop had close to a third of its original size, and, after trying not to appear suspicious, he popped it in his mouth. He finally blew a normal stream of air through his nostrils.

Among the artificial strawberry flavor, he tasted Patrick.

\---

Pete paid for the treatment, much to his horror, with his credit card - his name obnoxiously presented on the sheet of paper that was printed for his receipt, and definitely stored in the computer’s system. Patrick didn’t have his insurance card on him, obviously, and the hospital didn’t take cash. Again, obviously. The credit card had been the forced choice. Too further salt the wound, the bill’s total was a little over nine hundred dollars. A prescription for high grade painkillers were included in the price, and he considered keeping it to numb the emotional turmoil he was experiencing. He didn’t.

“Here, have your mom take you to get those,” Pete said as they climbed into his car, the prescription released from his hold. “Follow whatever the bottle says to help you feel better faster.”

“Thanks,” Patrick replied. He stared at small cast on his hand, thumb sticking straight up. It hurt, though not enough for him to complain. Besides, he didn’t want to throw a pity party or be even more of a burden. He knew this had been shitty for Mr. Wentz. “Hang on, that won’t work.. What should I tell my mom, anyway? I don’t think I can hide the cast.”

“Do you think you can keep it hidden until Monday?”

“Huh? Why?”

Pete gave this sort of chuckle, saying, “I was thinking I could get to school early on Monday and go in the nurse’s office. I’ll get one of those blue slips for when students get hurt, you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah?”

“We can fill it out and say you were hurt in gym class. We’ll say that the cast you have on is a temporary one from the nurse.”

Patrick agreed, then remembered the paper he had in hand, “What about the medicine?”

Pete hadn’t thought of that. At his jacket’s collar, he almost tugged on an invisible necktie, and instead rubbing the muscles behind his shoulder. Everything was stiff and knotted. He shook his head.

“What is it?” Patrick asked, confused by the head shaking.

“Can you get it on your own?”

“Uh, I guess.”

The driver’s seat squeaked as Pete leaned in, both hands on Patrick’s nearest knee. It wasn’t the most romantic gesture, one palm stacked atop the other, but it was good to touch him. He went further, forehead against that soft shoulder. He inhaled the tang of their body odor and wasn’t bothered in the slightest. 

“Listen, I,” Pete whispered, “I’m really glad you’re not hurt. Or, I should say, not hurt more than you already are.”

Patrick turned to kiss him, catching the corner of his mouth at first, and then fully pressing them together. Mr. Wentz was reluctant to reciprocate, lips barely in a pucker. It was frustrating, and his exhaustion didn’t allow him to push it. They split apart.

“.. Pete?”

“Mmhm?”

“I wish I wasn’t your student.”

Immediately and with society’s logic for support, Pete wanted to agree with him. Not being in a relationship with a student would solve his problems in a snap. Poof! Like magic. Gone. He frowned at the mental image he had for an older, more mature version of Patrick. He had thought on this during multiple insomnia episodes, and had arrived at the same conclusion again and again. There was no fighting it, and he supposed this was the time to share it. 

“I like you the way you are, you’re.. Sweet. Interesting and unique,” Pete said.

Patrick scrunched his nose in disbelief, “I’m too young and it’s ruining things.”

“I know. I think, I like that part.”

“You like that part?”

“It’s a turn on. Same as me being older is for you.”

“C’mere,” Patrick half-growled. Pain shot through his hand and he whimpered, “You can’t say that and get away with it. Fucking kiss me, _please_.”

Pete pecked him on the cheek, pulled back, and took in the sight; thick glasses and dirty boots, a pout and a broken hand. He was dying to kiss him, ready to take him home and lay them in bed for the final day of winter break. His mind raced and he squeezed the steering wheel.

“Do you hear me? Don’t look at me like that!”

“We’ve done enough damage in public. I’m taking you home,” Pete said sternly. 

“Ugh!”

Embarrassed by his intense reaction, Pete stomped his foot on the break and yelled some inaudible frustration. He couldn’t win, and neither could Patrick. They were unflinching with one another, refusing to give in because of the implicit weakness. It fucking sucked.

“I care about you,” Pete barked. “Get that through your skull. Stop acting like I don’t want you. We can’t get caught, and, and I’m trying to be careful, and it’s agonizing to have you constantly testing the limits!”

“Yeah?”

“ _Yes_.”

Patrick slumped. Testing the limits, exactly, that was a solid way of putting it. That’s what he did. This thing with Mr. Wentz was his greatest evidence for that, and he wasn’t going to quit. Especially not tonight. He made a face while buckling his seat belt.

“This is probably a bad time to tell you that, heh, I’m actually sixteen.”

“You-- You’re, what!?”

“Kidding.”

\---

Monday was strange. Pete’s hair had a faint tint of the dye, Patrick’s hand making him a target for conversation. It was easy to guess who preferred the extra attention.

“Stump, I gotta admit,” Robbie praised, “that’s sick. Does it hurt?”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Patrick said. They were in their typical lunch spot, on the low walls that bordered the outside of the cafeteria. It was fairly isolated and spacious, their legs spread along the brickwork. “I hid it over the weekend. I have to lie to my mom when I get home today, gonna tell her I got messed up in gym.”

For the eager audience of his friends, and anyone else who stuck their nose in his business, he told the true story. It made him cool! Yes, he had snuck out to an underground show and had a lovely time, his hand busted due to a crowd surfing session gone awry. Gritting through the realignment of his bones, he walked away with a wicked concert souvenir. The most critical detail he left out was who had taken him to the hospital.

Liam punched him affectionately on the shoulder, “You’re growing up! Being a little punk rock prick on your own. “

“Eh,” Patrick brushed him off.

“Who were you with again?”

Robbie jumped in, eyes flashing behind his swish of copper hair, “His lover, man! He’s banging this guy.”

“Ew!”

“Hahaha!”

Patrick folded his arms and waited for them to finish. It took close to thirty seconds, in which he should have been choosing his next words more cautiously. He didn’t, and loudly cleared his throat.

“We haven’t even done it yet.”

Robbie and Liam stopped pretending to hold their sides and did a double take. Did they hear that right? Fuel had been added to this story’s fire. Liam was positively howling, finding this so hilarious that he had to fall onto the wilted grass below, feet flailing. A pair of passing junior boys made fake gagging noises at the display. 

“Damn,” Robbie said, taking on a different attitude, “why are you such a virgin? You scared?”

Huffing, Patrick answered, “No! It hasn’t happened, that’s all.”

“Hey, I could help you get that first time out of the way.”

Patrick was startled, a downward glance showing him fingers wrapped around one of his belt loops. He eyed the smirk on the older boy’s face. There was no way of recognizing whether or not this was a legitimate offer, and this wasn’t the best place to find out. Not that he was interested. He kicked a leg toward him, annoyed.

“Tch,” Robbie sneered. He let go of Patrick. “If that’s how you wanna be. I bet you’re awful in bed.”

“I’m not, jackass.”

“Bet that’s why he hasn’t fucked you.”

It was hard having friends whose natural inclinations were to taunt and judge and be aggressive. Because of them, slipping to an abysmal degree of self-esteem was effortless. Patrick didn’t regret spending his high school days with these two, he wanted to learn from them and seek their approval. Rebelling had required certain guidance he couldn’t find elsewhere. They had shaped him, and he knew he could be tough. And sometimes, he had to show them what he was made of, guts and all. He lunged.

They were a blurred scuffle before Liam noticed what was happening. He was quick to stand and enjoy the entertainment. The trio became a wrestling match: Patrick and Robbie trying to pin each other with Liam acting as the referee, hollering unhelpful advice and waiting to declare a winner. Although, it was undoubtedly going to be no contest. Patrick was crippled and in a haze of emotion, Robbie having several inches and pounds in his favor. Swears and dust arose from the scene, irrational teenage hormones encouraging them. It ended without much action, Patrick’s good arm yanked under his own weight by his opponent, who loomed above.

“Pansy-ass mothafucker,” Robbie hissed. His knees jabbed into those doughy, vulnerable sides. “What did you think you were gonna do? What?”

Patrick scraped the last, foolish sliver of strength he had in him, and swung. With his left hand, bound in its cast, he whacked Robbie dead in the jaw. They cried out at the same time, Patrick’s voice filled with anguish. He rolled onto his stomach as he was freed, tears preventing him from seeing what was going on around him. He only knew that his hand was flaring with such brokenness, he was sure that today's date would be on his tombstone.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to use the gym excuse with his parents. This had been a matter of pride.


	13. Chapter 13

Pete raised his chin. Lowered it. Raised it again.

In his exit from the bathroom, he had caught sight of his reflection and swore there was more fat than usual on the underside of his chin. Shit, he better not be gaining weight. He touched his stomach, his waist, his ass, examining and worrying. All were firm beneath his fingers. With a skeptical expression, he supposed he had been imagining things. Still, he should be exercising more often. He knew his weekend runs were no longer under the threat of being seen by a particular student. That bridge had been conquered months ago. He almost wanted to be happy at the thought.

Patrick never failed to come to mind. His loneliness hated him like that.

Pete’s closet doors slid open with ease, and he picked a folded long-sleeved shirt from the top shelf. It had ‘Montreal’ written in cursive across the front, a tiny maple leaf embroidered on the frayed pocket. He had bought it on a trip to Canada with his old girlfriend during their second year together. It was one of the final items he kept to remember her by. Plus, it was snug for the winter and made his chest look great. He pulled it on.

He collapsed onto his sheets, legs tucked and cell phone somewhere above his head. The room around him was cold, mid-January chills consuming the city.

“Ah..”

Groaning, Pete rolled. He buried his face into a pillow, stale from a lack of attention to his usual household duties. A grimace sullied his face. He wished he wouldn’t think about her. It happened more than he cared to admit, with his insides immediately a knotted wreck. They had been perfectly awful together, and he knew he was hung up because of their extensive, traumatic history. It was a passionate type of shell shock. Smashing her car window for reasons he can no longer remember, the pregnancy scare (twice), their screaming match breakups every couple of weeks, the age gap that had him shunned by family and friends.

Wait.

Heartbeat quickened, he raised a hand up to pat his cheek as if to check whether or not such a depraved dirtbag could exist. He winced when he felt the clammy skin with his fingertips. Oh, _no_.

So that was it. He had always been this way, using his charm and experience to manipulate others. He sprung to various conclusions at once. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He hadn’t meant to, he had been in regular relationships! A lump in his throat made him cough and he gasped into the pillow, jerking his head toward the ceiling.

Those regular relationships didn’t matter. They weren’t the ones stealing a good night’s sleep from him, nor were they the ones he woefully clung to like a starved weasel on a rabbit. And apparently, he was only getting worse with age. These ten years he had on Patrick were borderline illegal, paired with the whole unfortunate ‘he’s my student’ thing. His toes curled in a mixture of arousal and contempt. He pictured Patrick in bed with him, supple flesh on display. The image dissolved in a puddle of acidic guilt. What the hell was wrong with him?

He rubbed the heel of his palm between his eyebrows. He knew he was making the area splotchy with the friction he was creating, and he wondered how bad it looked in addition to his forehead’s wrinkles. Lately, he had been noticing the fine lines whenever he leaned in too close to the mirror. He also had them beginning to blossom on the corners of his eyes and mouth. It seemed that the wrinkles were becoming more prominent while his tattoos faded and bleed where they weren’t supposed to. Sure, he could get them redone, it simply couldn’t compare to getting inked for the first time. He didn’t have the money or motivation for anything new, either. At nearly thirty years old, he may as well have been nearly sixty.

There wasn’t much he had to show for his age, either. Just a house with a ridiculous mortgage and dyed hair. Not mention the potential loss of his career. He had worked hard to become a teacher, and he was putting in even more effort out in the field. Among the endless essay grading and dreadful administration team, his love for teaching endured. He couldn’t lose it. He understood the mistakes he was making, and continued to dig a bigger ditch for them.

His cell phone pinged with an incoming text message. He grabbed it and already knew who it was.

 _Can I come over?_

Pete dropped the cell phone and shifted his focus to the bedroom’s window. The curtains were drawn tight, a peeling Guns N’ Roses world tour sticker plastered to edge below. He stared at it until he fell asleep.

\---

“Hello..? Hey, Pete! Where are you?”

Pete was abruptly awake, his muscles tense. That noise seemed to be in his kitchen, its irritated inflection familiar. He checked the clock and realized he had been asleep for no more than twenty minutes, and was surprised to hear his name being called by.. who?

“Mr. Wentz!”

Patrick? 

He repeated the thought aloud, “Patrick?”

“Hey! I’m here!”

Pete fumbled past the sheets and walked out of the bedroom, the lights, which he had switched off hours ago, caused him to squint. The tile was uncomfortable on his bare feet, and he rested on the archway that separated the hallway from the living room. He cupped his face and was assaulted by pangs of stress. This could, couldn’t be happening. He was paralyzed with disbelief.

Patrick burst forward, arms outstretched. The cast prevented him from giving a full embrace, though it was fierce nonetheless. 

“Thanks for answering my text,” Patrick said sarcastically, stepping back. “What were you doing?”

“It’s, I,” Pete tried, startled by young man’s energy. He should be asking the questions here. “Doesn’t matter. Why are you here? No, no, hang on - How did you get in my house?”

“Uh, you left a window unlocked.”

“You broke in?”

“If you wanna put it that way. I didn’t technically _break_ anything.”

Patrick didn’t wait for a reply, going in for a kiss. That’s what he had come here for. He needed attention, affection, and he needed it from Mr. Wentz. He moaned in relief to have those lips, sour with sleep, on his own. There was no resistance, and soon they were tangled with their hips securely aligned. The wet kisses broke through the house’s solitude, the walls suddenly alive with the sounds of knocking elbows and scuffing feet.

“You’re insane,” Pete told him, taking a moment to breathe. “On what planet is it acceptable to come here without my permission?”

Patrick laughed, “The one where you don’t answer me. You always answer. ‘Sides, I was already over here.”

“I can’t believe..”

The conversation ended there, the kissing now a full-fledged makeout. It was sloppy, like they had forgotten what they were supposed to do, and still intent on doing it. Pete pushed, his strength forcing Patrick to take several steps backward. He wanted to move them onto the couch without having to press pause on this. At the same time, he tried to be delicate with Patrick, wary of the broken hand. It was difficult, the unbroken hand caressing his hair with silent pleads for them to undress. They missed the couch, toppling to the floor in a heap of heat.

Pete had taken the impact of the fall, laying flat and flustered, “I already told you you’re crazy, right?”

“You said ‘insane’,” Patrick corrected. He was positively beaming.

“Yeah, that. You’re insane, you’re crazy. You drive me crazy.”

Patrick took this as an invitation to continue and began to undo his own belt buckle. Mr. Wentz was half-dressed, and he didn’t think that was very fair. He lagged a bit, a pair of sturdy hands distracting him at his knees and thighs. Being crippled didn't help, either. He struggled, little gasps escaping him. With a few tricky maneuvers, he shoved his pants past his backside and put Mr. Wentz’s right hand on his crotch.

Pete tenderly applied pressure, Patrick’s excitement pronounced through his briefs, and peered up at him. He opened his mouth to confirm what they were going to do, but he was beaten to the punch. 

“We gotta do this. I had an offer on my virginity,” Patrick said, rolling into the pressure. 

“Hm.” Pete kept his features neutral, asking, “Who was this suitor?”

“I didn’t say he was wearing a suit.”

“No, Patrick, a _suitor_ is a word for someone who’s interested in you. Who was it?”

Patrick’s shyness poked through, his legs trembling, “It was Robbie.”

“I see,” Pete said, not knowing if it was better or worse that he had a mental image of the other kid. His hands stopped moving. “And you refused?”

“Yup. All for you.”

“Patrick..”

“He even asked twice! Last week and then two days ago when I was in the hospital. He showed up with a pack of cigarettes and a boner,” Patrick claimed. He excluded the chunk of the story about Robbie’s jaw putting him in the hospital in the first place. Minor detail.

Dark eyes wide, Pete retorted, “What? Why were you at the hospital again?”

“Doesn’t matter! I’m waiting for you, that’s what I’m saying!”

“You can’t--”

“I fucking want you, Mr. Wentz!”

Pete was overwhelmed, and he lifted himself, adjusting them both to sit with their backs to the couch. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped stray saliva from his chin. For such a blunt change in the topic that it could be considered verbal whiplash, his tone was mild, “What happened to calling me ‘Pete’?”

“You don’t like it,” Patrick grumbled.

“But that shouldn’t be enough to stop you. You always do whatever you want.”

Patrick heaved in annoyance, his knees drawn in. He couldn’t argue with that. Not that he had the desire to. He exhaled, “So what now? Are you gonna give in, let me do whatever I want?”

“It depends. What exactly, well, what do you want?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t.”

Exasperated, he strained for something that would satisfy Mr. Wentz. He had no idea. Regardless, he took a plunge.

“All of it. Calling you by your first name, the dates, and, and the sex.. A label, too. I want to be a real couple,” Patrick admitted. He was blushing in a blaze of anticipation.

There was a pounding at the front door. A man’s voice could be heard. 

“Police!”

\---

Both were clawing at one another in sheer terror, a mix of ‘Who’d you tell!?’ and ‘I’ll get arrested, okay!?’ between them. In a matter of seconds, Pete had snatched Patrick’s unbroken hand and snarled at him to hide in the hallway closet. The voice repeated its announcement, much louder than the previous.

Patrick watched him walk away, and didn’t shut the closet door until Pete’s hand was on the front doorknob. He gulped and slowed his breathing. An umbrella tip was prodding him in the calf.

Pete greeted the policeman with the fakest smile this side of the Chicago River, “Good evening, officer.”

“Evenin’, son,” the policeman replied. His name was given, promptly omitted by Pete’s spazzing train of thought. He let himself into the house, his car parked at the curb while flashing red, white, and blue. “We got a report from a neighbor sayin’ they saw a break in. Through a back window?”

The policeman pulled a notepad from his belt, flipping to the final pages. He read and scratched the bushy hair beneath his cap. 

“Oh, no, Sir," Pete said, ecstatic that he wasn’t being charged with statutory rape. “That was me, I, you see, I locked myself out.”

“That so?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What’d you say your name was?”

Pete crossed one leg and stroked his beard. It was an attempt to be casual, his name stated, “Peter Wentz.”

“Can I take a look around, Peter? You don’t match the suspect’s description. Report said a heavy-set Caucasian.”

Involuntarily, Pete’s gaze flickered at the hallway closet. Patrick was less than ten feet from them. Assuming that the closet door didn’t completely muffle what was being said, he could be certain that the kid was ticked at how he had been described. It was embarrassing, of course, though he couldn’t blame his neighbor for their alarm. Shit. He wished he could claim that there had to be a warrant in place or that he had a right to privacy, however, he didn’t dare stir any further suspicion. He agreed and spread his arms open in a welcoming motion.

The policeman made a beeline to the kitchen windows, notepad out and handcuffs jingling with each step. He inspected the panes of glass and the hinges, the metal part tapped by his pen. A moment later, he was onto the windows in the living room that were adjacent to the television. He didn’t say a word.

Pete was fretting, and he did his best not to appear so. The smile was dropped and sweaty palms were wiped on the scarf that shared his shoulder bag’s hook. He went to the refrigerator, stocked full of sodas for a specific teenager, and retrieved two cans. On the couch, he popped the Coke’s tab and sipped, the Dr. Pepper placed on the coffee table. He drained most of the can and anxiously straightened his posture.

“Hmph..” The policeman had strode away from the windows and was scribbling in the notepad. He huffed and snorted, his nose stuffy with a lingering sickness. He ignored the offered drink. 

Pete was concerned, and babbled, “Sorry for the trouble. It really was me coming through the window. Oh, I’m a teacher, I know how it feels to be an overworked, underpaid civil servant. It’s a rough life, isn’t it, officer? Aha..”

“You didn’t see any strange activity tonight?”

“No, Sir.”

“You have people comin’ by that shouldn’t be here?”

“No, Sir, absolutely not.”

Pen clicked, the policeman observed Pete’s rapid speech, the overt politeness. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him, the situation unclear. Maybe he had a drug dealer swing by and had to keep him hidden. Or that there actually was a break in, and the intruder had been murdered. He scowled at the risk of shoddy detective work. 

“I assure you, everything’s fine here,” Pete promised, sparking that fake smile.

The policeman was convinced enough, he figured nerves were a reasonable enough explanation. He gave the other man a small card. It had the nearest police station’s non-emergency number, the text bold and surrounded by the Chicago Police Department's logo. He returned to the front door after the notepad had been tucked into his belt.

“Thank you,” Pete said sincerely.

“Let your worried neighbors know that you lock yourself out on occasion,” the policeman said. His badge gleamed in lights of the sirens when he turned the doorknob, “Anythin’ make you feel unsafe, give us a call. Have a nice evenin’, son.”

He disappeared into the darkness beyond the porch, his silhouette soon livened by the siren lights. A wave was seen, which was acknowledged before the front door was shut. It was quiet.

Tires rolling along the asphalt, Patrick emerged. He turned to see a petrified, colorless Mr. Wentz.

Neither had ever felt more unsafe.


	14. Chapter 14

Pete watched the pencils dance across lined paper. The lead tips were spewing sentences at a mile a minute, eager to complete the essay prompt. A few pencils were flipped to the eraser end, correcting uncertainties, then returning to scratch out an improved thought. One pencil wasn’t moving at all. Untouched on the desk of Patrick Stump. 

A glance at the clock told him that there was fifteen minutes left to write. The ironic prompt of ‘Writing, Is It Worth It?’ dominated the whiteboard.

Pushing from the side of his desk, Pete began to circulate the classroom. He checked the progress of each student he passed, some covering their work while others looked at him expectantly, seemingly ready to receive their grade that very instant. After going through several rows, he lingered at the back of the classroom. His arms folded involuntarily and wrinkled his dress shirt.

Patrick felt the stare. Even with his head down, he knew Mr. Wentz was there. He wondered if it had anything to do with his lack of essay. He tapped the fingers of his good hand on the paper, his name and the date the only items written. His broken hand was stiff and numb, like it was frozen. He had forgotten to take his pain medication last night, and had decided to double dose this morning. It was an idea that had made sense at the time, when his hand prickled with pain. The loopiness had worn off around lunchtime, and now he was simply exhausted. It reminded him of being hungover, except he had to be trapped at school instead of hiding beneath his bedsheets. He couldn’t wait for the goddamn cast to come off. Two more weeks, and he would be fully recovered.

That stare remained. Again, he wondered. Mr. Wentz usually didn’t acknowledge him in class, less so after the cell phone incident. Was it the way he was dressed, too irresistible to ignore? In his own mind, he failed to detect the sarcasm. He knocked his knees together, the holes in his jeans allowing him to feel skin. He remembered ripping them last week, an ambitious task to do with one hand and a kitchen knife. Still, it was cool. The hat he wore was wide-brimmed and lazily balanced atop his head, its logo unrecognizable. His other teachers had demanded that it be removed, Mr. Wentz not saying a word. He wouldn’t call it special treatment, no, it was more of an understanding. 

Pete walked past Patrick’s desk, announcing to everyone, “About ten minutes. Keep going, we’re almost done.”

There was a mutual grumble.

Patrick yawned, its volume disrupting those nearby. It was assumed by the class that he was trying to be obnoxious for the hell of it. With his outbursts, the most infamous being toward Mr. Wentz and Robbie, he had built somewhat of a reputation: A chubby junior that delighted in the provocation of others, dodging rumors that he was a sly little faggot. It wasn’t the most flattering combination, but people knew his name and didn’t want to beat him up or anything. He had learned to not be bothered by it, and had come to enjoy it. People talking about him and curious for what he would do next, hey, it was pretty fun. 

He had another year to go at this school, and he was sure he would make his mark before it was over. A profoundly impressive event to be remembered by. There was no solid plan, just a reliance on the effects of his emotional turmoil. He was unstable and embracing it. A daydream about graduation flickered to life, images of praise from faceless peers spun behind his eyelids. 

“The bell is about to ring, so let’s turn those papers in. You guys have done enough for today,” Pete said, his voice cutting through the final scribblings. “Make sure you have a title on there, that’s the most critical part!”

A quick line formed at the collection tray on Mr. Wentz’s desk. Questions about the prompt were blurted, receiving an indifferent shrug in acknowledgement. Everything would be graded and returned in a week, that was all Mr. Wentz would say on the manner. One by one, the essays were turned in and feet shuffled near the door. Relief and restlessness collided, the weekend a single class period away. 

The bell rang and the group squeezed their way out. Those who noticed Patrick, apparently asleep, felt a pang of pity for Mr. Wentz having to deal with him. Not a soul knew the truth, the clicking lock entirely unnoticed by the stream of students outside. 

\---

“Uhn..?”

“Could you please wake up?”

“Yeah.”

Patrick propped his chin on his elbows. His hat nearly fell with the movement, and he caught it, dragging it back into place. 

“Why are you sleeping in here? What’s wrong?” Pete asked while sitting at a desk. He aligned the desk to have a better view of Patrick.

“Didn’t sleep much last night. This boring essay you made us write didn’t help, either.”

Pete skipped over the rudeness, and pressed, “Did something happen?”

“No, I just, I haven’t seen you lately.”

“You’re seeing me in class everyday.”

“C’mon, you know what I’m talking about.”

There was a lull. Neither knew what more to say or do. Ever since the officer had interrupted them, intimacy had come to a grinding halt. The texting, too. It had been the safest course of action, silently agreed upon. They were at a new height of paranoia, those police sirens burned into their brains. It was scary and tangible and further vanishing the ghost of a relationship they shared. 

Pete cleared his throat, “You shouldn’t be losing sleep over me, I’m not worth it. There are better things going on in your life, aren’t there?”

“No,” Patrick sighed. “Grades are average, I don’t have any money ‘cause I don’t want a job.. What else.. I don’t have a car, my friends are being weird - it’s all a bunch of bullshit.”

“How are your friends being ‘weird’? I thought everything was good with them,” Pete said. He cleared his throat again, troubled to hear this.

“They’re, like, not the same as usual. They don’t talk much around me and haven’t been inviting me to hang out.”

“Maybe it’s because of your hand injury? Or Robbie feels awkward after trying to make a move and being rejected?”

“I guess.”

Pete extended his reach, a hand steady on Patrick’s shoulder. He felt him recline into the hold and went further, brushing against his cheek. He stroked upward until he met those fuzzy sideburns. Carefully, he gripped the back of Patrick’s neck and realized how far his own neck had arched over the desk. He was straining for a kiss, gentle and with a hint of desperation.

Patrick stopped him, “I shouldn’t have said ‘no’ to Robbie. He’s good enough.”

“.. Do you honestly believe that?” Pete blinked. His grip faltered.

An inaudible reply escaped Patrick, muffled by how he pushed a sleeve to his mouth. He was in no mood to have an interrogation regarding his rash decisions. Especially not with this asshole. For the second time, his hat slid. He went to catch it, and was prevented by Mr. Wentz’s reflexes, with the hat striking the floor. 

“The fuck was that for?” Patrick snapped. 

“I shouldn’t be letting you wear it. School policy.”

“Says the teacher who chases teenaged tail. Like you give a fuck about _school policy_!”

“Patrick, lower your voice.”

Patrick stood, fighting his way out of the desk and scooping his hat and backpack off the floor. He was happy to lower voice, straight to a shrill whisper, spit flying, “You’re a real piece of work, I don’t even know why I try! Acting high and mighty, and I’m, I’m leaving.”

“You try because you want to,” Pete retorted.

“I don’t want anything from you. Not anymore.” 

“We’re together, Patrick, I’ve told you that before.”

“Doesn’t feel that way.”

“Well, we’re not in a fairy tale. We have to deal with our problems.”

Hesitating, Pete also rose to his feet. He understood Patrick’s inner struggle, he did, and he knew saying that would piss him off, past the point of reasonable discussion. He supposed that’s what they were going for here. His expression became apologetic, though what he asked was almost accusatory, “Are you going to settle on Robbie over me?”

“Oh, no,” Patrick said mockingly. “How could I lose you? Such a stud, and I’m so unworthy-- Wait a sec.”

“What?”

“You never answered my question. That should be answered first.”

“What question?”

The young man was frazzled, and he was revving up to break his other hand on Mr. Wentz’s stupid, forgetful face. He pushed past the desks and closed the gap. His teeth were bared, the soles of his shoes stretching as he was on his tiptoes, ensuring that they were, literally, on the same level.

“When I told you what I wanted that night with the officer. When I asked to have it all, remember?” Patrick challenged, inhaling the scent of Mr. Wentz’s cologne. It had a dizzying woodsy overtone that stirred something in the pit of his stomach. His tongue flattened against the roof of his mouth.

Pete swallowed, “I want to give you that. Trust me, you have to trust me that I do.”

“.. I..”

“ _Trust me_.”

“Why does this,” Patrick fussed, squirming in the arms that had caught him by the waist, “sound, like, it sounds..?”

“Conditional?”

Pete kissed Patrick’s forehead, hugging him so tightly that he heard a soft whimper. The threat of their relationship being discovered such a legitimate one that he had to do this. They had to.

“You’ll be eighteen in a few months.”

\---

Dumped from the bus, Patrick trudged into his house with bleary eyes. He had been battling tears for the past couple of hours, his glasses smudged due to the constant lifting and readjusting. No one had noticed, and he learned that being friendless on the bus was a blessing in disguise. 

Inside, he flopped on the couch, face crushed to the cushions. He couldn’t summon the will to climb up to his bedroom.

Life was at this tragic turning point. And somehow he had himself to blame. The path he had created was unfuckingfair, drenched in doubt. His brain hurt worse than his hand, scrambling to decide which direction would lead to the least amount of misery. He couldn’t possibly wait for his eighteenth birthday, it was an eternity away! What if Mr. Wentz no longer wanted him? What if he made him wait for graduation? How could stand to trust him without crumbling?

Patrick became a ball, knees cramped to his chest and arms wound together. The twinge of hunger, ready for an afterschool snack, was disregarded.

When dinner was on the table after sunset, he hardly moved.

“Sweetie, it’s turkey lasagna, it’s not that bad,” Mrs. Stump called, her slippered feet padding around the kitchen. “There’s gravy that goes with it, I promise it’s tasty. Come and eat.”

“All right, Mom.”

In his usual seat at the center, Patrick served the oddly-colored lasagna onto his plate. It was coated in a layer of the gravy and bulldozed the sprinkling of zucchini he had placed beside it. His empty glass reminded him that he hadn’t taken a drink since lunch, yet he didn’t fill it. He plucked his fork and was weary of his parents, Mom chittering about how the postman keeps delivering junk mail and Dad with a mouthful of Miller Lite. They were completely unbothered.

He deadpanned, “Katie broke up with me today.”

“My goodness, that’s awful,” Mrs. Stump immediately jumped in with. “David, did you hear that? Your son’s heart was broken.”

“No, Mom, all I said was that she broke up with me. My heart’s fine,” Patrick said. His fork was set down.

“What was the problem?” Mr. Stump questioned.

“She said I wasn’t mature enough. Or whatever.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t think I’ll be that much more mature when I’m eighteen.”

Mrs. Stump was confused, “Did she tell you that? Eighteen?”

“Not exactly,” Patrick backtracked. “She was kinda vague about a timeline. Legally, I’ll be an adult once I’m eighteen. That’s what I thought of when she was talking about waiting for me to mature.”

His parents exchanged raised eyebrows. It was rare to have their son be open with his emotions and problems, particularly those involving romance. The co-ed birthday party crisis in seventh grade was the last frank chat they had shared. And to have it during dinner, with minimal attitude? Should anyone find the phrase ‘nuclear family’ in the dictionary, there would be a photograph of this scene. 

“Yes, you will legally be an adult,” Mr. Stump said, “and that’s it. You won’t be an adult mentally or emotionally or, God no, not financially.”

“Thanks, Dad. Makes tons of sense.”

“Don’t start getting smart with me.”

“Sweetie, girls your age tend to--”

“I was a boy at eighteen, that’s a damn fact.”

“--go for people who are a bit older,” Mrs. Stump smiled sympathetically. She patted his arm and nudged for him to eat.

Patrick shook his head. This was going nowhere, and he couldn’t recall why he had made the effort. They couldn’t actually discuss what was upsetting him, which made any given advice useless. 

His mother continued, “Maybe Katie is looking out for you. I’m willing to bet she cares about you and wants the best for you.”

“I don’t feel the best.”

“That’s how life is. Take what you get and move on,” Mr. Stump puffed, scowling at the two of them. The graying hairs of his mustache were dewy with beer, his scowl difficult to take seriously. “Clinging to this isn’t healthy.”

Patrick wished he could laugh and have them understand how truly unhealthy his world was. He was a mess from the inside out, and he wasn’t sure he could be made clean. And he didn’t fault Mr. Wentz for that, he wouldn’t, not with his lust for that man being the most consistent part of who he was. He likes Mr. Wentz, he likes _Pete_ and every good and bad thing they’ve done. He’s starving to trust that they’re together, trying to obey and be sensible about having to wait. It was ruining him to the point that he was seeking help from his parents on windy Friday evening. Picking apart his sickness over dinner through fake ex girlfriends and the dynamics of a juvenile breakup. 

“It sucks that we have the same English class. I have to see her whether she wants me to or not,” Patrick concluded.


	15. Chapter 15

“You look.. like a preppy douchebag? Or something?”

“Gay. Gayer than usual.”

Robbie and Liam simultaneously tilted their heads. It wasn’t a bad haircut, not by a longshot, it was just different and hard to tell what the point was. Why was it so cleanly done? That was the biggest question. The sideburns were gone, the unruly strands trimmed to reveal his ears and the back of his neck. Without a hat on, it was impossible for them to locate him among a crowd. They had nearly walked right past him in the hallway this morning. 

Patrick was beaming, accepting the unconventional compliments, “Thanks. I think it’s working for me.”

School had ended for the day, the three of them in their usual spot by the driver’s education cones, bored and with this haircut as the most stimulating topic they had. Bundled in their coats and hats, eyes leery of anyone passing by. Sleet had frosted the streets that morning, the concrete beneath their feet slick with potential spillage. The sky was overcast and threatened more bad weather before nightfall. Getting into any trouble would be a problem if it was going to be too fucking cold to move.

“Why, though?” Liam asked. He was picking at the lines of dirt beneath his fingernails, with no intention to look up. “What was wrong with your old hair?”

“Nothing. I needed a change.”

“Sure you did.”

“Yup.”

Liam snorted, “Did that guy you're sleeping with tell you to change it? Oh, fuck, wait - You’re not sleeping with him, right? Gimme a break, that’s even more pathetic.”

Patrick and Robbie shared an embarrassed expression. They both ensured that the other didn’t see it, their shoes suddenly very interesting. A discussion of Patrick’s love life ignited memories of failed advances and successful blows to the face. It was uncomfortable and they knew Liam was oblivious. Or at least, he didn’t care how they felt because he wasn’t involved. They had to wait for him to stop cracking virgin jokes to feel more at ease.

“It’s not our fuckin’ hair, who cares? Let’s go,” Robbie said. He stepped onto the asphalt and waited to be followed.

“It’ll probably rain, we should hurry. Can we go to your house?” Patrick asked. 

“Worried the rain is gonna screw up your hair?” Liam barked playfully, reaching to brush that dirty blonde fluff. His fingers caught some dried product and he made a retching sound, muttering about how sticky it was.

Patrick ignored him, reiterating his desire to go to Robbie’s, “Your dad isn’t home on Mondays, right? We’re good to go over?”

Robbie blew out thickly, “Yeah, we’re good.”

“Your dad hates us.”

“No,” Liam interjected, “he hates you, Stump. You’re turning his lil’ boy into a flaming homo.”

“He’s not turning me into anything,” Robbie said.

“Guess I imagined all that dick sucking you did last summer.”

Doing his best not to care, Patrick listened to his friends prattle on while they walked across the parking lot. His backpack was weightless on his shoulders, currently in full slacker mode with no textbooks or binders brought with him. It was all candy wrappers, headphones, and loose change, the zippers ajar on several pockets. He was the first to reach the final section of the lot, where the teachers and administration typically parked. It was empty save for two cars, one of which he recognized. A dark, compact car that he had spent his fair share of time in. And he was hyper-aware of the person walking toward it. A volcano of jitters erupted in his rib cage, rendering him unable to speak.

“ _Ooh_ ,” Robbie cooed. He failed to notice how Patrick’s head dipped out of fear. “That’s Mr. Wentz. Damn, why does he keep dying his hair that weird blonde color?”

Patrick felt Robbie’s elbow in his side and heard Liam gripe about how unimportant this was. He silently screamed as they walked closer, forced to go directly past where Mr. Wentz had parked due to the lot’s fencing. They couldn’t go around, couldn’t hop it. No matter how exposed he was in this moment, he didn’t think it would be enough to help him scramble over those metal bars.

He regretted ever mentioning his interest in the teacher and cringed at how they had spied on him. He begged some higher power to make his friends behave, a promise for better behavior offered in return.

”Whoa, whoa! Mr. Wentz, what’s the rush? Don’t wanna say ‘Hi’ to your favorite students, or what?” Robbie started with. He slung an arm over Patrick for emphasis.

“Leavemealone,” Patrick sputtered at the arm on him. 

“Sheesh, what a spazz.”

Pete had seen the group from fifty yards away, their loud chatter and uneven footsteps quite obvious. Christ, this is not what he needed right now. He wanted to go home without having to play nice in front of Patrick. It was much tougher after their conversation to solidify where their relationship stood, and it would be a lie to say he didn’t already miss him. Fantasize about him. The grip on his shoulder bag became damp, his lips curled into a modest smile.

“I believe you and I have different definitions of ‘favorite’, Robert,” Pete said. He paused in his motion to unlock the car, unblinking.

“Don’t play, Mr. Wentz. You know I go by Robbie.”

“Mmhm.. Are you staying out of trouble as a senior?”

“Ha! You know it.”

Pete’s gaze narrowed, irritated by his snickering and the way he practically had Patrick in a chokehold. The other boy, who he was unfamiliar with, appeared to be uninterested in what was going on. Still, it was one more person he had to keep his cool for. He drew in a short breath, remarking, “It’s good to see your hand out of that cast. Now you can focus more in my class.”

“Yeah, focus in class,” Robbie said rudely. 

“Shut up!” Patrick growled, reaching to claw the older boy’s arm off. He was careful not to muss his hair. 

Pete interrupted them before they became too wild, “Cut it out, you two. Robert-- Robbie, aren’t you the one who broke his hand? Let’s not do it again.”

“I only kinda broke it,” Robbie shrugged, releasing Patrick. “It was his own fault, anyways.”

“Shut up,” Patrick repeated. His cheeks were flushed, and he stood next to Liam. 

“You’re such a weakling, Stump.”

“Well thanks for raising me that way. I blame you.”

Sympathy sprouted within Pete, and he struggled to offer support without playing the part of a teacher rescuing the bullying victim (bullied by the people he chose to hang around with, no less!). He didn’t want to fight battles that weren’t his own, despite the fact that he was thoroughly involved in this. Not that anyone knew. So.

“Patrick?” Pete said the name fast, afraid it would come off as too casual. He watched those blue greens brighten and shift. 

“What?”

“.. It’s good to have friends. Better to know what you yourself are worth.”

Amid the confused, giggly whispers of Robbie and Liam, Patrick dug his heels in, “I don’t get it.”

“I’m saying that you should do you.”

Opening the driver’s door, Pete plopped into the seat with his shoulder bag placed on the passenger’s side. He wasn’t going to make idle chatter all day. It wasn’t healthy for him. Once the door was shut, he twisted the key in the ignition and rolled his window half-way. It had begun to drizzle, Patrick’s arms above his head in defense. The lack of a hat for a kid who always wore hats was ironic.

“That haircut is great on you, by the way. It’s a shame you had to show it off today, this weather is no good.”

\--- 

Within the next week, it was the day before Valentine’s. Was that Valentine’s Eve? No, no - Patrick doubted that this goddamn Hallmark holiday was on that tier of importance. 

Magically, naively he was in a position where he wanted to care.

He had gathered upwards of fifteen dollars, mostly crumpled Washingtons, and kept them rolled in his wallet, which he pawed at throughout the afternoon. When the bell finally dismissed him from seventh period, he ditched his bus and his friends. He needed to visit the corner store at the school’s main intersection. There had been a display of bouquets and other cheap goodies that had caught his attention some time ago. It was overtly flashy and eager to have suckers spend their money. He was stirred by the sight of them, his brain certain that it would be a key part to his success. The buzz of anticipated romance at school and the lonely, late-night jerk off sessions had also nudged him toward this decision. 

“That’ll be sixteen seventy,” the cashier said. She chewed her gum and tapped her chipped nails on the register. 

“Uh, okay, hang on,” Patrick mumbled. He replaced the bag of Doritos on the shelf beside checkout counter, annoyed that he didn’t have the money for them. “Nevermind on the chips. Just the flowers.”

The cashier rang him through a second time, and bumped the bouquet with its receipt toward him. She glared when the receipt was ignored, the kid’s backpack sideswiping a magazine display on his way out. The damn thing almost toppled over.

Outside, Patrick tucked his precious purchase into his jacket. Their cellophane wrapping kept them from too much damage, daisies and carnations hedged by sprigs of curled ferns. In his opinion, he had chosen the prettiest flowers possible for a corner store Valentine’s gimmick, and he was going to ensure they stayed pretty. He checked the time on his cell phone and softly swore upon realizing that it was dead. He had forgotten to charge it this morning. Fine. He shouldn’t need it, since his parents believed he was going to be with his friends for dinner. 

If anything, the lack of a cell phone was a sort of divine grace. He didn’t need the temptation to text Mr. Wentz that he was coming over.

The walk to his neighborhood would be a little under an hour, but Patrick felt good. Confident. He hadn’t been able to stop replaying Mr. Wentz’s compliment about his haircut. It had been sincere, he could tell from his tone, the genuine ego stroke and attention he had been pining for. The memory clogged his intestines with butterflies. He unconsciously brushed the top of his head, where his hair was now the longest rather than an all around fluffy mayhem. Its volume and glossiness were increased by his new mousse, courtesy of his mother’s judgement in the men’s styling products section at Save Rite. 

With twinkly street lamps soon flanking him on either side, he knew that he had miscalculated the walk’s length. An hour of walking came and went. There were at least three or four streets to go, the final, dusky sunbeams disappearing beyond the city’s skyline. His pace quickened. He had no idea what the exact time was, due to the dead cell phone, and began to shiver in the windchill. 

“God,” Patrick wheezed, having jogged the remaining blocks. He flexed his hand. In his jacket pocket, his fingers had been clenched out of habit, their recent release from the cast continuing to affect him. “Okay.”

Mr. Wentz’s front door seemed larger than he recalled, his fist small against the backdrop of varnished wood. He knocked twice. Then twice more.

Pete exited the kitchen, palms wiped on his sweatpants. He had been washing spinach and tomatoes for a salad, the vegetables waiting in a strainer beside the sink. The porch lights were switched on and he grasped the doorknob. He hesitated. Slowly, he peeked out through the door’s fisheye lense and cursed to himself - it was Patrick. _Of course_ it was Patrick. This kid was going to be the death of him.

He considered pretending to not be home, and decided that would be grossly rude with the lights already on. There wasn’t much of a choice to be made. His mouth became dry with apprehension.

“I’ll admit,” Pete said, taking Patrick by the shoulder and ushering him inside, “this is an improvement from last time. No break ins.”

“I told you, that wasn’t a break in,” Patrick sassed. He was surprised that he hadn’t been made to stand on the porch and plead his case. Must be to avoid being seen by those nosy neighbors, he supposed. 

“Fine. What are you doing here?”

Hoping this was the romantic move he envisioned it to be, he pulled the bouquet from his jacket. He held it between them. It was a bit smushed, petals absent here and there, the shriveled stems in desperate need of water. The cheap quality was obvious, except to those who figured they were passable for the holiday.

“.. You..”

“It’s for Valentine’s Day,” Patrick explained, “for you. And because you, because I miss you. Here.”

Pete accepted the bouquet, avoiding any physical touch. The cellophane wrapping crinkled in his grip like a strained cry. He glanced at the sad little daisies and carnations, more pasty than the face across from him. Shit. The gesture was sweet. Actually, it was really adorable and unexpected, an experience limited to his own adolescence. A beautiful cliché born to seal the fate of this affair. He was quiet, “Thank you. I haven’t had a Valentine in a while.”

“So you like them?”

“I do.”

“.. Pete?”

“They’re great,” Pete said in response to his first name. Feeling choked, he inhaled sharply, “I don’t know what to say. I, you know I miss you, too.”

Patrick took his chances, and went to kiss him. Realistically, it was more of a peck, their contact too brief to sense the tension. The restraint.

“We can do this. If we miss each other, then we should be together,” Patrick reasoned. His glasses had slid to the end of his nose, chin angled forward. He was unabashedly ogling the older man, he couldn’t help it. Sweatpants with uncovered arm and neck tattoos were sexy.

Pete wavered, “The idea of anyone finding out stresses me out to the point where I can’t think. I feel sick, I know I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

“I want you doing this with me. Please, how many times do I have to say it? I want you,” Patrick reminded. “And don’t you remember? I said they won’t find out. Everyone. They’ll never, ever know.”

“You’re seventeen.”

“Tch, who cares? You don’t.”

Pete rested against the wall, the flowers crossed over his chest like a prayer. He knew that Patrick’s age mattered. Both in the ‘I should rot in Hell’ kind of way and the ‘It’s a delicious obscenity’ kind of way. What could he do about it at this point, other than outright rejection? Relinquish his power as the adult? He shook his head.

“Let’s not go so fast,” Patrick said. He joined him against the wall, staying close.

“No sex?”

“I can wait for my birthday. I need to be with you, even if I’m absinthe.”

“.. Do you mean ‘abstinent’?

“Oh, yeah. What’d I say?”

Pete relaxed by a few degrees. He chuckled, “Nevermind. Let’s get these flowers in a vase.”


	16. Chapter 16

“Say it again.”

“Why? Patrick, you’re being arrogant.”

“You started it.”

Pete sighed and repeated, “You look good today.”

“Can you give me a stronger adjective than ‘good’?” Patrick crooned, imitating the question he had previously heard from Mr. Wentz.

“Shh..”

They pressed together, Patrick’s ass perched on the teacher’s desk with Pete gripping the edge and blocking him in. Warm and peaceful and deaf to the surrounding school. Their lips were a rigid contrast; Patrick’s chapped and tinged by a faint soda pop flavor, Pete’s cinnamony with a fresh coat of chapstick on. Neither was willing to complain about the other. It was such a relief to have this, a dose of arousal to motivate them through the day. It’s accessibility and taboo nature making it all the more appealing, their old habits effortlessly resurfacing. The bell signaling the last chance to be punctual for seventh period didn’t faze them beyond a grunt of acknowledgement.

“I can kiss your neck now, that’s probably my favorite part,” Pete said in reference to the haircut. A few days ago, Patrick had gone for a touch-up, the lines above his neck still clean and smooth. “What made you decide to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Change your hair.”

Patrick smiled, loving how much the new style had gotten in Mr. Wentz’s head. An article from this month’s _Seventeen Magazine_ had been his inspiration. The only inconvenience was that hats were a no-go. He bounced the locks with a nod, their longer length at the top cascading over his eyebrows. It slightly impaired his vision, but he could tell those deep browns were flirting with him. Curving backward, he gave a better view of his body, both legs spread as far as he could manage in skinny jeans. His smile widened, “I changed it because I wanted you to notice me again. You wouldn’t even look at me in class.”

“Sorry, the guilt was just overwhelming me,” Pete answered. “You should have seen me outside of class. I came close to a nervous breakdown on the freeway - I saw a cop following me for awhile before it turned its lights on and sped off an exit. I was terrified.”

“Geez, when was that?”

“A couple days before Valentine’s.”

Patrick frowned because hearing that made him feel bad. Cops sucked. His feet dangled idly and his hands squeezed the strong shoulders in front of him. He went to a simpler subject, “Speaking of Valentine’s, we never actually celebrated.”

“Isn’t that what the flowers were?” Pete asked.

“Yeah, sorta. We should do something, though.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I dunno. Maybe a night in?”

Their relationship was a hazy line to walk for Pete. For both of them, to be fair. He didn’t want to call anything they did a ‘date’, and he didn’t want to make the kid isolated, either. They had been riding a roller coaster for the past several weeks, poised to hit the emergency break at any second. Without stability, however the hell they could make that happen, their roller coaster would crash and burn. He stroked his beard anxiously.

Patrick’s voice was subdued, “I think.. Movies and take out can count for a late Valentine’s. Right?”

“.. We can do that,” Pete said thoughtfully. His mouth rested an inch above Patrick’s collarbone, grazing the thin sweater he wore.

“So you’ll pick me up this Friday at eight?” 

“Hilarious.”

Patrick was tingly. The hold on the taller man’s shoulders tightened, and he urged him to continue. His cock was beginning to bulge, not yet distinctly visible through his pants, and he was ready to provoke him with a shamefully evident boner. He was dying to show him how turned on he became from their interactions, thirsty due to their recent distance. Mr. Wentz made him reckless and he loved it - he would allow himself to be fucked on this very desk if possible. Half-dressed and hurried, eager to have a mess made inside of him. Or would it be on his back? What would he prefer?

Pete pulled Patrick out of his delusions, saying, “You need to go to your next class. I don’t want them calling my room trying to find you.”

A sneer sprung on Patrick’s mouth, “Worse, they could send someone from the office trying to find me.”

“Stop.”

“I thought I was supposed to go?”

Pete murmured an inaudible frustration, he definitely should have seen that coming, and he had to resist the itch to lecture on the repercussions of being a smart alec. Rather, he helped Patrick step down from the desk. He wrote a late pass and signed it after being nagged for a final kiss. It was intense, the air heated when they split apart. 

“Go on. We’ll have our fun this Friday,” Pete assured him. His arms were folded and he was standing at the whiteboard.

“Don’t forget,” Patrick said. His jaw became clamped with worry that his request made him appear clingy.

“I won’t forget.”

“Awesome.”

An email pinged in Pete’s inbox, the principal’s electronic signature stamped at the bottom. Mr. Watts was asking for an general behavior update regarding Patrick. He had to keep track of the junior who skipped homeroom, cussed at teachers, and re-broke his hand on another student’s face. He was quite curious to hear Pete’s input, what with how many late passes he had issued to Patrick throughout the year. 

\---

Once the delivery man had been paid, Pete barely poking his head past the door, he grabbed the Thai food and locked them in. No one else should be disturbing them for the evening, no matter what his anxiety screeched. They would be fine. He hurried to the living room, socked feet sliding on the hardwood.

“You didn’t tell me your couch was a bed!” Patrick exclaimed, having discovered the couch’s secret. He was extending it open, the springs’ squeaks louder than the television. The coffee table had been shoved aside with the cushions and decorative pillows arranged accordingly. 

“I didn’t think it was a big deal to you,” Pete said, amused.

“I get excited about dumb stuff.”

Pete allowed him to finish setting up while he brought over plates from the kitchen, the two bags balanced beneath. He sat on the couch, now a bed, and placed everything on the floor. He realized that he hadn’t brought forks, and wondered, “Can you use chopsticks? They gave us some with the food.”

“Err.. no,” Patrick replied. 

“Ah.”

“Should I know how?”

“No, but I’d say it’s a useful skill,” Pete said. He untied the bags and popped the lids on the Styrofoam boxes, the scent of curry-coated rice wafting out. 

Patrick taunted, “Teach me?”

“No. Go get a fork.”

Pete portioned the food using the chopsticks, and handed one to Patrick upon returning with a fork. The servings were stomach-growlingly heavy. He kept the majority of the vegetables on his own plate, the other filled with the larger pieces of spiced chicken. 

“Whoops, I didn’t put the movie in,” Patrick remembered, crawling to the DVD player. He extended his arm, lazily, and put the disc in, which had been nicked from the corner store because of his severe lack of funds. The cardboard casing had been ripped where the bar code was in order to sneak past security sensors. Not that he had wanted to do that. He ignored the small crime by clicking around with the remote.

“What are we watching?”

“Fucking _Iron Man_!”

“Sounds pornographic.”

“It’s a superhero movie,” Patrick droned. He clicked ‘Play’ on the DVD menu. “Can we turn the lights down?”

Pete’s tone was mild, “I know. And yes, we can turn down the lights.”

With nothing more than the screen’s glow, they ate and concentrated on the film’s first scene. The couch, with its hidden mattress, was wide enough for them to have all the stretching space they wanted. Of course instead, they loosely entwined their legs. It was cozy, the scraping pair of chopsticks and fork substituting for a conversation. A background noise blending with the film’s dialogue. It wasn’t until they were forty minutes in that the silence was broken.

“He’s so hot,” Patrick declared. He pointed with his fork.

“Who?” Pete searched, the scene alternating among a group. “Tony Stark?”

“Yup. He’s basically the reason I wanted to watch this.”

Pete observed the character, a zoom on his face in the next scene, “I see. He’s handsome, I’ll agree with that.”

“Robert Downey Jr. is a babe, heh. Who’s your celebrity crush?”

“No one? It’s not particularly important to me.”

Patrick didn’t find that answer to his satisfaction, and probed further, “Seriously? What, you don’t wanna name names?”

“All right.. Halle Berry? She’s cute. Keira Knightley has a nice figure. I’d probably say Megan Fox, too,” Pete confessed. 

“No guys?”

No guys. It was a normal truth that seemed extremely abnormal for the moment. Pete knew that he couldn’t believably claim a crush on a Hollywood man, he couldn’t lie about it. That’s not who he was. Whenever he watched a movie, his sexual instincts drove him to seek plump breasts and backsides. Women were his preference. He adjusted to undo their legs, his empty plate set on the floor. 

“I’m not sure--”

“Hang on,” Patrick cut in. “I don’t want to miss the movie.”

Patrick also moved his empty plate to the floor, using the remote to hit pause. He then snuggled at Pete’s chest, his expression expectant. 

“There aren’t any male celebrities,” Pete was cautious, “that I’m attracted to. I don’t usually think of men that way.”

Patrick was puzzled, “What about me? Aren’t you with me?”

“Yes, I am.”

“But why?”

Pete exhaled. His sexuality wasn’t an item he was willing to discuss. It was convoluted and private, his number one source for moral struggles nowadays. It often had him rolling through waves of disgust in a frantic swim for a sign that he wasn’t this horrific human being. It pained him and he hated how he these mistakes had become who he was. He enjoyed them. The one to blame, should he stoop to that level, was currently nested on top of him. A sultry, delinquent boy that he had stolen from a classroom.

“I’m with you because I like you and because I care about you,” Pete said, reiterating his words from the hospital parking lot. He averted his eyes. “You know that, Patrick.”

“But why? You said you don’t think of guys that way,” Patrick insisted, his legs between Pete’s.

“I don’t know. You’re different.”

“What’s that mean?”

Pete shifted to a whisper, “Different. Think about it, _understand_ it. We, I had one of my morning jogs interrupted by you. Where you were smoking, nonetheless! I had to drag you inside after finding you on my lawn, had to lecture you as a teacher in my own home. I had to concern myself with how you wrote those lyrics in your composition book--”

“And then you kissed me.”

“You were crying!”

“Yeah?”

“Doesn’t that,” Pete fought the exasperation, “strike you as different? This isn’t, you know, a typical relationship story.”

Patrick moved to the crook of Pete’s neck, laying smooches wherever he could reach. He didn’t want to sound too serious, “All right, all right. I guess being different is good. I’m, like, the only guy you wanna be with.”

Pete didn’t dare try to counter that. It was too fragile. He went to nuzzle Patrick’s hair, a firm grip on his hips that were warm even through his borrowed sweatpants. He heard Patrick start to say something and used his mouth to stop it. There was no resistance, just a husky groan in response. A pleasant lull, their make out session escalated to include bitten lips and roaming hands. Oily residue from their dinner was licked clean, tongues gliding. He had forgotten how full he was, somehow hungrier than ever. His right calf was soon being straddled and he was shocked at how thick Patrick’s erection felt.

“D’you, mmph,” Pete turned his head to breathe and ask, “We can finish the movie first? If you want?”

“No,” Patrick argued.

“You sure?”

“Nngh, Mr. Wentz-- Pete, I, m-missed you _so_ much.”

It was a lot for Pete to take in. Having this other person hopelessly into him, a cheap dinner and a movie, the clothed grinding in the dark - it was the epitome of the high school experience, a classic. The ups and downs that came with their intimacy were utterly nostalgic for him in ways that he couldn’t completely admit to. Being with Patrick was what he craved ten years ago bundled as a sad, sugared package. A box of chocolates that would have matched those fucking flowers.

He was ripped away, the thoughts vanishing with a feverish thrust aimed toward his lap. 

“I’m gonna cum!” Patrick whimpered.

“Wait, what?”

“Sorry!”

Patrick’s cock throbbed hard, and reburied his face in the crook of Pete’s neck. The moans were apologetic, his abrupt orgasm showcasing a lack of control. He knew he had ruined his briefs and possibly the loaned sweatpants. What an inexperienced idiot he was! He arched his lower half to the side of Pete in an attempt to spare him any damage. Cum that wasn’t stuck to fabric dribbled along his thighs, clammy with sweat.

“Fuck,” Patrick hissed. He had flopped to his back and gotten a head rush.

Pete went to hover above him, shaky, “What’s, what happened?”

“.. Uhm..”

On his haunches, Pete undressed him from the waist down. He heard Patrick protest and shushed him. He was quick about it, making sure to wipe the excess off his thighs with the sweatpants. He saw those pale hands covering a flustered grimace. When he balled everything in his hands, ready to be dropped in the dirty clothes hamper, he said, “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“ ‘Kay,” Patrick nodded. He let Pete go, and, to feel more secure, nestled under the folded blanket he had fixed on the couch’s arm earlier. It was made of wool and a bit scratchy, although comfortable for the time being. His eyes fluttered, the ragged purr of a washing machine in the distance. He was motionless until there were fingers combing through his hair. 

“You’re a real bottle rocket when you want to be,” Pete noted. He gave him a pair of running shorts, courtesy of the laundry in the dryer that he had forgotten to empty.

“Is that the nice way of saying I have a knack for being a, fuck, for jizzing at the worst time?” Patrick fussed, the running shorts snatched.

“No, it’s not.”

“Whatever.”

Pete trailed his fingers to the blanket. It had been a year since his dog had used it, the poor creature scooped into his girlfriend’s truck before sunrise on a Tuesday. No further texts or calls, no remorse for what she had done. That bitch. It had hurt, ached the entire summer and well into the fall. He wished he could be smug and think, ‘She should see how I’ve gotten over her!’. Which, he may have done, save for the fact that his coping method was opposite of healthy. His thumb brushed a threadbare patch at the blanket’s hem. Now he was numbed by the painkiller that was this kid, enveloped in the softness of his favorite keepsake. A coping method.

“Hey,” Patrick said, lacing their closest hands, “I meant all that ‘missing you’ stuff. I think that’s why I kinda exploded.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” Pete said. He stood and hunted around for the remote, his silhouette made pearly by the screen.

Patrick was happy. To be doted on, and to be frequently scolded for the stupid crap he pulled, was the best. He had this person, a lover - they never finished negotiations on their relationship’s label - and he was enamored. He was living the fantasies that had blossomed last September. Except, it was more incredible than he could have imagined, a welcomed euphoria. 

Through the night, the blanket remained in place on Patrick and Patrick alone.


	17. Chapter 17

Spring break slammed into the city on a crest of snow and wind, students trapped inside with parents who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, entertain them. During the first two days of the break’s frigid weather, cable and Internet service became sparse, and cell service was spotty. It was extraordinarily difficult for the parents of high school students, desperate to see their friends and dangerously hormonal. 

Patrick had decided to study for his written driver’s permit exam. The packet he had snagged at his school’s front office had been sitting under his chemistry textbook for months, filled with rules of the road and practice questions. He poured over it for a solid two days, his earbuds helping him keep focused. It was annoying, but he did it, and mid-way through the week, he was as prepared as he would ever be. He even highlighted some shit he figured would be important to remember.

His mother thought it was cute how hard he was trying and was happy to drive him to the DMV. It was less than ten miles from their home, the surrounding roads recently cleared of ice on a weekday morning. She said he could drive on the way home if he passed, totally legal with the law stating that he needed a licensed driver in the car with him.

He did pass, and was too preoccupied with texting friends to drive home.

“Yeah, Mom, thanks. We’ll celebrate later, I’m beat,” Patrick called, at the foot of the stairs with his mother in the family room. He hurried up and bounced into his bed, smug.

_Guess what!_

The text was sent to Mr. Wentz, his excitement sky-high. From his wallet, he took out the driver’s permit and flipped it back and forth, too pleased by how the light caught the reflective surface. The photo of him wasn’t completely terrible, either. His face had a natural sparkle to it, his bangs swept in the correct direction. 

_What happened?_

_I got my fckin drivers permit!_

Another name for a driver’s permit was a ‘learner’s permit’, which he refused to refer to it as. It made him sound like a kid, and he wasn’t. He could drive, was turning eighteen in five weeks, knew how to fend for himself, and had a sex life. He was basically an adult. 

_That’s great! Really proud._

_Yea now all I need a car. Can I borrow yours? jk_

Patrick waited for the reply. He burrowed in his pillows and comforter, the William Beckett poster still on the wall above. He stared at it and wished hadn’t forgotten his iPod on the dresser.

_No, just finished paying my car off._

_I said jk!_

_I’ll take you for a ride in it._

_??_

_My car._

He re-read the conversation. Was this an offer to go out? On another date? He tapped aimlessly at the keypad, thinking of what to say. Surprisingly, he found it easier to be witty and flirtatious in person rather than via texting. He wondered why. Mr. Wentz cut short his train of thought with more messages.

_I’ll be at the same spot I was last time. Tonight, 8:30._

_Cool_

Patrick checked the time and saw that it was ten minutes to three. He hated that he had to wait all afternoon and evening for this date, although he supposed it was the safest route. They would have the darkness for cover, which he understood was a necessity for them; they had been through too much weirdness. He felt lucky that this relationship had endured. That it existed. He noticed his cell phone’s low battery.

Grunting, he wormed free of the bed and went to plug into his charger. He knelt down beside it, the socket on the wall beneath his window. There was enough space for him to sit below the window seal without hitting his head on the jutting, 70’s style molding. He glanced around his bedroom, picturing how the layout would be different if he had a desktop computer. Maybe a nice rolly chair to go with it. He sighed. At this angle, he could see all the clutter under his bed frame. Tattered magazines, CDs of bands he no longer cared for, that hat he wore his entire freshman year, and.. Hey! 

His yearbook from sophomore year was there. Newfound Chicago Public High, 2008.

Patrick stretched and snatched the yearbook. Dust flew off with the movement, having been untouched since the summer. He immediately opened to the back, where the faculty photos were, and searched for his favorite teacher. 

“Oh my God.”

Mr. Wentz looked good. Like, really good. Among the devil horns and obscenities written in metallic Sharpie across other staff members’ faces, the man shone brighter than the rest. He had the same dyed hair, the beard, a colored necktie - everything matched his current appearance. But it was just an insufferably gorgeous photo, it put Patrick’s driver’s permit to shame. Through a singular headshot, Mr. Wentz managed to convey this sense of compassion that had Patrick absolutely smitten. He could feel it, having had personal experience with it. It’s part of what he believed had initially drawn them together.

He wanted to caress those wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, to smell the crisp cotton of his dress shirt. The crazy thing was that now he could do those things, he had done them and was planning on doing more in the future! Their daily routines had become tangled. A bubble of shyness inflated in his gut, and he couldn’t look at the photo directly after a minute or two. 

He had never been this captivated by anyone. Not in his whole life. And he would do anything to have his feelings reciprocated.

\---

Patrick gave up, tossing the aux cord to the floor mats and returning his iPod to his jacket pocket. It wouldn’t play the mix he had made, which was a proper tragedy. He sniffed, his pink nose irritated.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. It could be that your iPod is an older model,” Pete pondered aloud.

“My iPod? It’s your aux cord that’s jacked up.”

“It’s brand new.”

“I just wanted to play my music,” Patrick lamented, laying back in the passenger seat. “I had a bunch to listen to!”

Pete was able to switch on the radio with the keys in the ignition, saying, “Let me guess. Plenty of The Academy Is…?”

“Yeah, and there were some other bands, too! You’re the one who said you were interested in pop punk.”

“That’s true.”

Pete eventually settled the radio on a local station that had a bit of an alternative rock aftertaste to it. He figured it would be a decent substitution. The volume was set at a non-disruptive level, the lyrics and melodies scarcely audible. He did feel bad that the music wasn’t what Patrick had planned on, however, judging from the way he had sprinted to the car earlier, the kid was content where he was. The radio played an unknown song:

_“.. With weapons in the form of words,  
And, don’t really care which side wins..”_

They were at Calumet Park, the East side’s resident access to Lake Michigan and make out spot. Positioned at the far end, they had avoided any unnecessary company, the car’s headlights dimmed and doors locked. A blanket was draped across them from the backseat, a defense against the near-freezing temperature. They shifted to hold hands, the clear windshield providing them with an opportunity for stargazing. There were probably three or four stars that were visible in the city’s smoggy, cloudy horizon. Or were those planes? It was tough to say for certain. It didn’t matter, neither of them were bothered by it.

“Congrats again on getting your permit,” Pete said. He brushed his fingers over Patrick’s knuckles.

“Thanks,” Patrick beamed.

“Hopefully you’ll have your license by senior year.”

“Hopefully..”

Patrick enjoyed his maturity being acknowledged. He had indeed taken the initiative to study for the driver’s test, and passed on his first try! It had been sort of scary, sure, though nothing he couldn’t handle. He was capable. He could navigate the real world and its bullshit. Relationships included. His eyes fell on Pete, who was yawning, and he opened his mouth to speak. He could do this. Having a frank discussion on where they stood as a couple was within his power, it had to be. C’mon, c’mon! He chickened out at the last second, saying, “You won’t be my teacher next year. I’ll have Ms. Benny or whoever they give the dumb seniors to.”

“You’re not a dumb senior,” Pete corrected. “You’re not in a remedial English class right now, are you? You’ll be in a standard class next year.”

“Eh.”

“You’re with me for another quarter, make the best of it.”

“That’s only nine weeks!”

Pete shook his head. He knew it would be strange not seeing the younger man on a daily basis, and he had grown used to having such easy access to him. To his harmonic chuckles that were reserved for an empty classroom, to how soft his skin was after hiding under a hoodie. These things were the better part of his afternoon, Christ, the better part of his week! He could sympathize here, he had to. His emotions carried him forward, and he kissed Patrick slowly, savoring him. 

“I’ll still see you outside of school,” Pete said.

“I know, I know,” Patrick mumbled. He was relieved to not have to be the one mentioning it. Whew. They would continue these nights out (and in) once summer began. Blushing, he imagined what trouble they could get into. “It’ll be great.”

They would stay like this. 

The song on the radio ended, and Patrick tugged on the blanket. He wanted to be closer to Pete. There was a gap between the seats, though less so when they were lain back, which made kissing a strenuous activity. Despite that, he was trying. He craned his neck with puckered lips, the speakers providing an unromantic soundtrack of local advertisements. Somewhere below, his leg pressed to the emergency brake. It was too uncomfortable for a continued effort. He whined in disappointment, “Ugh.”

“Relax,” Pete hummed. His gaze was steady on the windshield.

“I can’t. I get all hyper when I’m with you. Hyper and horny.”

Pete laughed. 

Patrick huffed, “C’mon! I’m being serious!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Pete said, his final laughs fading. At this point, he would expect the kid to be half-hard from their banter and smooching. And on the note of unquenchable desires, he sat up to dig around the compartment at the bottom of the driver’s door. Chiming glass and metal could be heard.

“Huh?” Patrick chirped. 

“I brought you a little congratulatory gift.”

Patrick squinted, the shape of the bottles catching the dull light of outlying streetlights. Bottles!? No way! This was exactly the type of trouble he wanted to get into! Held by their capped tops, there were two - tall and curved and filled with a liquid as golden as honey. His jaw went slack for a moment. 

“This is amazing!” Patrick cheered. In the darkened car, the labels on the bottles couldn’t be read without holding it an inch away. While he had preferences for his beer, he didn’t actually care what brand it was, and was simply thrilled that they would be sharing a drink. He was positively grinning at Pete, “Let’s open them!”

Using his house key, Pete freed the caps and passed one to the waiting hand. The blanket was then fixed to cover them in this upright position. They said a quick ‘Cheers!’ and clinked the rims. 

Patrick almost spat on his first swig.

“Soda!?”

“Hm?” 

“Why are you congratulating me with _soda_?” Patrick sputtered. He roughly wiped his chin, wet with ginger ale.

“I’ll answer your question with a question: Why would I give alcohol to a minor?”

\---

At the back of the bus, across from the cracked window, Patrick was slumped. Daydreaming.

Mr. Wentz, Pete, had been a sight to behold during sixth period today. He had made lecturing about personal narratives sexy. His voice, the way he gestured at the PowerPoint, how he seemingly danced along the rows of desks during a sample reading.. What an asshole. Who returned from spring break with such a radiance? He assumed the blowjob two days ago was at least partially responsible. 

Often, he swore the man had an invisible crown. A royal glintz that caused Patrick’s attention to always be on him. It made him want to follow him wherever he went, to do whatever he was told. He wanted Pete so badly. 

When he stepped off the bus, he noticed that his combat boots had mud caked on the sides. Must have been during lunch in the grass, he and his friends terrorizing their classmates for the hell of it. He undid the boots before entering the house, making a mental note to spray them down later. In reality, he should buy a new pair. These had fraying laces and discolored leather, and, yes, he knew that was part of their charm. But summer was approaching and he was planning on keeping the interest on him. He needed new clothes, ones that made him stand out in his own style. If he could convince Pete to take him shopping, he could help him choose a few pieces that they both liked. Then he wouldn’t have to worry whether or not he was attractive to who he needed to impress. 

Patrick made a pitstop in the kitchen for a sleeve of Ritz crackers and a jar of peanut butter, a spreading knife plucked from the cutlery drawer. He cradled the items on the trek to his bedroom, extra careful on the stairs. 

On his bed, he tuned into his iPod’s more relaxed music, mostly acoustic versions of popular rock songs, and began to munch on his afternoon snack. He felt good. Walking on air kind of good. Each note ringing in his ears was refreshing, the salty sweetness on his tongue exactly what he had been hungering for. 

“.. Nah, nah nuh, nah, hold you, touch you, feel you, alwaaays..”

He knew he was in a great mood, since singing aloud wasn’t common with him. Usually, he would do an air drum or air guitar, which was cooler than maintaining the correct pitch like a Sunday choir girl. He rolled his eyes at himself and continued, gentle breaths not missing a beat. 

Fifteen minutes into his playlist, he had eaten well-past the serving size for the Ritz and peanut butter. Whoops, he should have portioned it out - his mother was constantly on him about that, anyway. He belched and paused the music to rearrange how he was organized. The discarded food was now on the floor and more pillows were behind him for support. Oh, and he needed to undo his jeans because he was bloated. Leisurely, he released the button and pulled on the zipper to liberate his belly.

His hand wandered to the yearbook. It had found a home on Patrick’s nightstand rather than stashed beneath his bed. He jumped to the faculty section, impatient fingers slipping on the glossy edges of the pages. 

Beautiful.

Soon, he was repeatedly thumbing a heart shape around Pete’s photo, his music remaining paused. He was entranced. His dick wasn’t even sending him signals to start masturbating, there was no carnal lust to destroy this tenderness. 

Patrick imagined what he would say if there were no repercussions, how he would serenade him with a perfect string of words to express this junk going on inside of him. It would woo Pete to embrace him and proclaim that they were meant to be. Forever. They would be each other’s first and last, going on dates and sharing a home, doing anything a regular couple would do. That’s what would happen if he could get this _right_.

What could he say to achieve that?

He realized the hush of his bedroom and dared to practice, “I think I’m in love.”


	18. Chapter 18

Pete chose to drop Patrick off at home after an evening of thoroughly enjoying one another’s company in the bedroom. They were exhausted. Worse, it was pouring out, and he didn’t think it was right to force the kid to get soaked by walking home. Allowing for the rain to die down wasn’t the best option, either. It was half past three in the morning, less than two hours until Mr. Stump would supposedly be heading downstairs for his morning coffee. They didn’t need an impromptu parent-teacher conference. 

“Buckle your seat belt,” Pete said as they entered the car. He clicked the garage opener and waited.

“It’s not that far!” Patrick complained.

“Still. What if we were in an accident?”

“That wouldn’t happen. I trust you.”

“Seat belt or you walk.”

Patrick wanted to kick at the dashboard, only deciding not to because he could see how clean it was. Plus, he remembered being told that the car had recently been paid off. He squished his forehead in annoyance and tried to pout. He was ignored.

They backed out of the garage once they were buckled in, the brights switched on to help them see in the awful weather. There were no other cars on the surface streets, and the rain hadn’t totally sloshed the asphalt, yet the drive was a slow process. Probably to be on the safe side. Or, more likely, to squeeze the last drops of quality time from the weekend.

On Patrick’s street, Pete hesitated for a moment. He drummed the steering wheel in thought. Where should he drop him? There weren’t any locations that would help him to stay dry. At least, none that could be considered sufficiently discreet. Risk-taking was such a consistent theme for them. Thunder snapped in the sky and made his following sentence inaudible. 

“What?” Patrick asked. His brows were raised and he listened to a tamer, accompanying thunderclap.

“Here,” Pete said, pulling into the driveway rather than across the street. He gestured toward the house. “I don’t want you to get all wet.”

Patrick giggled, “How generous! And I’d make that into a joke if I was a girl.”

“.. It would be better to say ‘If I were a girl’. Grammar is important even when being crude.”

The giggling continued.

“I’ll see you tomorrow in class,” Pete said with a playful nudge. 

“Yeah,” Patrick nodded. Mondays were lame, except during sixth period. He reached to rest a hand against Pete’s neck, fingertips at the fringe of his beard. “I’ll try not to get too distracted by your face. But no promises.”

“How are you not tired of me?”

“I dunno. Seriously, there are days when I want to ditch my other classes to see you. Sit in the back and help you grade quizzes or something.. Not that anyone would buy that. Everyone thinks I hate your guts. No, they _know_ I hate your guts,” Patrick mused. It was true. The knowledge of them being physically involved would turn the school upside down.

Pete moved to return the touch, a hand on his knee, and was kissing him goodnight. He had initially planned on a quick peck, and instead took his time to appreciate him. The arc of his mouth and the smell of shampoo, those dirty blonde bangs dusting his nose. With the rain unrelenting in its assault on the car, it felt nice to linger in the kiss. The sound of water pounding metal, hot breaths between them - it was easy to get caught up in themselves.

Breaking apart with a ‘pop!’, Patrick seemed to be glowing. Light was emitting from behind his head, like a halo to match his cherubic features. Wait, what--

“Patrick.”

“Yeah?”

“Someone’s awake! Go, go!”

Patrick whipped around to face his house, now alive with a kitchen light. Dad! He scrambled to undo his seat belt - this is pretty much exactly why he hadn’t wanted to wear one, goddamn it! - and crashed the door open. A gasp instinctively escaped him. He had nearly hit his head on the flooded pavement of the driveway, forgetting to close the door behind him. In an awkward bout of grace, he made it to the welcome mat without tripping or making too much noise. However, he ruined it when he turned to call, “Bye!”

Beneath the protection of the porch, he waved. The thrill of the moment caused him to do a small jump. 

Pete had no response aside from peeling off into the street. It was unconventionally exhilarating, a smile stuck on his face within seconds of swerving to the next street over.

\---

“Just a sec, just a sec,” Patrick whispered. He rolled to the edge of the bed. “I need a drink. It’s fucking hot in here.”

“Whose fault is that?” Pete quipped. 

“Mine, hah!”

Patrick paced in the hallway outside of the bedroom. He probably had minute to himself, any longer and he may stir suspicion. His brain kept insisting that this was it. This was the right time to talk about how he felt. How.. No. He was going to tell Pete how he felt. There was no need to have a discussion, he would get stressed and ruin it! He had to exude confidence. An unintentional gulp went down his throat, prickly and bitter.

Being in love was scary.

A week ago, he had come to the realization that he was head over heels for Pete. First person he thought of when he woke up, last person he thought of when he fell asleep. It had moved past being purely sexual, and he suspected it had been that way for awhile, he had merely been too stupid to know it. He was sure that had never been in love until now. None of his previous experiences could compare. This was beyond a crush or a fantasy, this was _real_. And the fact that the person he was in love with was also interested in him, fuck, he figured that this was the jackpot. All he had to do was speak up and he would have a chance.

He peered around the hallway and found the framed photo of Pete. It hadn’t been given much attention since the night he had been caught in the front yard. He paid no mind to the young lady he was shaking hands with, zeroing in on Pete’s face like how he did at home with the yearbook photo. It was a side profile, although its allure easily wracked his nerves. He was such a handsome man with his flashing teeth and flexed muscles due to the handshake. 

Patrick was painfully aware of how daunting the situation was. Cautiously, he practiced what he was going to say.

“I love you-- I’m in love with you. I want us to be together, I, I,” he inhaled. Exhaled, “I want to know, I was wondering, wondering if youlovemetoo.”

“Patrick?” Pete’s call echoed in the hallway.

“Coming!”

Patrick hustled to the bedroom. The lamp near the bed, on the lowest setting, outlined Pete leaning against a stack of pillows. It was comforting to know he had been waiting.

“Hey,” Patrick ventured, climbing atop the crinkled sheets, “can I tell you something? Or, err, ask you something?”

“Which is it?” Pete extended his hand, wanting his empty lap to be filled. 

“It’s, I, it’s kinda hard to say--”

“Shh..”

Patrick had surrendered to Pete’s grip, his backside pressed to a budding erection, his knees resting at the dips of Pete’s hips. They were warm, almost sweaty. He would have been more bashful if not for the briefs he wore and the dimness of the lamp.

“How about,” Pete soothed, his teacher tone appearing, “I skip you and come back later? Besides, I have something I want to tell you, or rather, ask you.”

A billion scenarios exploded to life in Patrick’s thoughts, and he was shocked into stillness. He gestured for Pete to keep talking.

“Well.. I wanted to ask you to try something new with me. It’s very selfish of me, I’ll warn you now,” Pete said.

“Sex?” Patrick blinked.

“No, I want you to suck me off. And then,” he searched for how to explain his desires without being a total pervert, “I want to cum on your face. You know what a facial is, don’t know? I’ve been curious to see how it’ll look on you.”

“Oh fuck, really!?”

“Yes.”

“However I’ll look, it won’t be good,” Patrick assured him. His cheeks were on fire from the perceived embarrassment. This was crazy, straight pornographic!

Pete allowed himself a smirk, “It's a power trip for me. I can guarantee that I’ll love it.”

“Okay.”

Patrick’s insides had quivered at the mention of ‘love’. Here we go. He was gonna do this. All of this. 

They changed positions; Pete stood with his back to the bed, Patrick on the floor with his legs tucked under to correct his posture. A brief, final conversation about the logistics was had, their voices instinctively subdued. It was less complicated and more unfamiliar territory, especially on Patrick’s end. Though, with a pinch of planning, there didn’t seem much to fret over. They could handle it.

Pete was already stripped, allowing Patrick to immediately set to work. The kid hit the ground running.

“Shit,” Pete half-choked. Both hands snaked through Patrick’s hair, stopping at his neck. “That’s good. Mmph..”

Bouncing his head in a steady rhythm, Patrick clung to Pete’s thighs. His fingernails were anchored into the stiff flesh in order to prevent slippage, his throat relaxed to accept an impressive amount of cock. He pushed past the gagging sensation and swallowed the excess saliva. This had to be a flawless performance. He wanted to prove his sexual prowess and have Pete be a puddle of happiness when he confessed his feelings. Otherwise, he feared that there would be nothing for him in return. He whimpered and internally replayed what he was going to say, his mouth too full to mimic the words.

“Hnn,” Patrick murmured, having to readjust his mouth. Pete had become perfectly hard, the length a struggle to manage. His tongue lapped along the underside, drooling, the tip licking at the base. Through the satin soft hairs, he poked his tongue further to taste the skin atop his balls. He instantly felt Pete shudder.

“Ah, gentle,” Pete reminded him. Patrick’s molars were feathering his cock. His hands began to move again, rubbing the set of pasty shoulders below him. “You’re so eager..”

Patrick gave a swift response, “Eager? I’m always trying to get you off.”

“No need to rush.”

Pete involuntary thrust when the blowjob resumed, the effort and tightness stronger than before. He moaned in delight and could barely keep his eyes open. To this day, he didn’t believe Patrick’s claim about having never sucked dick in previous relationships. He had to have learned with someone else, this couldn’t possibly be raw talent. If it was, then he was the luckiest man in the world because there was nowhere to go but up. Or, hey, it could be that the women he himself had been with were terrible at giving head. It’s not like women are particularly known for indulging in the activity on a whim.

He could have laughed, but a satisfying pulse traveling from his cock to his stomach had him breathless. The touches on Patrick’s shoulders froze.

“Keep doing that, ahh, keep going..!”

Patrick obeyed. All the tricks and maneuvers he was doing with his mouth were tiring, his jaw resonating with a slight ache. Nevertheless, he knew his reward was minutes, seconds away. He could sense it in the way Pete was gasping, how the leaks of precum made his taste buds sour. He scooted closer, excited.

They had an exit plan in place, and with the mood becoming increasingly heated, it was certainly on the verge of being forgotten. They had to pry themselves apart, their bodies flushed in anticipation.

“D-Don’t move,” Pete ordered, slick cock rolling in his palm. “And look up at me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick agreed. It was a relief to have a rest from the blowjob, and yet, he was more anxious than ever. He focused on Pete, ass flattened on the carpet to flaunt his face at an angle.

Pete praised him, jerking with every word, “I can’t believe I have you right now. You, you’re beautiful.”

Patrick put on a shy expression, and didn’t know what to say. He reopened his mouth when told to do so, his mind going blank. He couldn’t remember what he had practiced.

"Put your tongue out, _yes_ , ooh, Patrick! Here it comes..!”

With a groan, Pete splattered his release onto that innocent face. He overshot it by an inch or two, stray globs landing behind him, and he definitely wasn’t bothered by it. He was enamored by the fantastic mess he had made, milky white and caught in eyebrows and lashes. Shakily, he crouched to have better view.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” he chanted, grabbing the sheets to wipe Patrick. It would be rude to leave him a dripping disaster. “You did so well!”

“I, yeah?” Patrick asked. His eyes widened to the size of blue green nebulas, heart ready to burst. Were he to have a mirror, he would see that same wreck of a seventeen-year-old that existed six months ago. Standing in Mr. Wentz’s classroom, crying and dying for them to take a shot at this madness. The resemblance was uncanny, and he hadn't grown a bit.

“Yes, you were wonderful.”

“.. Can I tell you what I was going to say earlier?”

Pete gave a nod. He had finished cleaning him, only needing a few swabs with the sheets. The fabric was bunched between his fingers, and he had no idea what was happening. 

“I love you, Pete.”


	19. Chapter 19

“.. Love me?”

“L-Love you.”

Patrick wavered. He hadn’t planned this far ahead. He never did. The absence of a reaction, any fucking reaction, was terrifying and he was becoming nauseous. He averted his gaze and heaved forward, arms around Pete’s neck. The sickness was contained solely by having the embrace returned.

“That’s sweet of you to say,” Pete started. He had dropped the sheet, his body rapidly descending from its euphoric high while fighting to not shatter their reality. “I never imagined you would feel that way.”

“And..?” Patrick tried to probe. His chin rested on the indent of Pete’s right collarbone, unable to pull away and be face-to-face. A woozy dose of bile bit at his esophagus, the tender tissue burning. Every passing second gave him a deeper and deeper sense of remorse. He was ninety-nine percent sure he had fucked up. The salt in the wound was that he had to grapple for an explanation here.

Pete pushed to sound affectionate, “I don’t want you to misunderstand. I, for me, I don’t feel the same.”

Wincing, Patrick attempted to be casual, “That’s all right. You, uhm, don’t have to say it back.”

“It’s a tough thing to admit. You’re brave for doing so.”

“I.. guess.”

Pete separated them, leaving Patrick on the floor as he stood. A wash of eerie silence overtook the entire house. The distant noises of the city and those of the neighboring suburbs were stunned. No honking cars, no crickets carrying a tune.

Pete walked to the bathroom and took one of the towels from the rack. At the sink, he folded it and dampened the corner to further clean Patrick’s face. He paused in the doorway, the claws of guilt beginning to drag through his chest, his lungs suddenly deprived of air. Of course he felt that he was at fault, more so for being the adult. He was supposed to maintain control. Yet it takes two to tango. Or, in this case, it takes two to have an ambiguous bond that leads to unreciprocated feelings and mistaken intentions.

What was the appropriate action to take right now? What else could he say?

“Here,” Pete offered the towel. It was taken with a murmured ‘Thanks’. He knelt beside the young man, worried, and watched the towel wipe over a heavy frown. “I won’t let this change anything about us.”

“What?” Patrick asked pointedly, the towel bunched at his chin.

“We’ll still be the same.”

“Sure.”

Pete could hear the sarcasm. He also noticed how Patrick hadn’t moved other than to clean his face. His legs remained folded, his head aimed to the floor. He extended a hand, promising, “You’re very important to me. I don’t want to lose you.”

Patrick snorted, a foolish courage stirring within him, “Then why don’t you love me? Why won’t you say it back? What, you don’t feel anything for me?”

“I just said you’re important to me and that I don’t want to lose you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Nothing?”

“Fuck _no_.”

Pete continued to kneel, not wanting to stand and give Patrick a sense of abandonment. But he wasn’t going to baby him, either. He knocked the towel away, taking him by the forearms and demanding eye contact. Met with a struggle, grunts of hostility were let loose. At least there was some fresh movement, and a shame that it was the result of Patrick’s temper. The incessant need he had to attack people was eventually going to consume him.

“Listen to yourself,” Pete said sternly. “You’re acting out for no reason. We’ve had a talk about this before--”

“I’m not acting out!” Patrick seethed.

“You want to be treated like an adult--?”

“Yes!”

“Then stop this behavior! I can’t love you for no reason--”

“I’m not--”

Pete had shifted to hold him by the cheeks, cutting him off for the final time, “You are. You want me to love you for no reason. I can’t, I’m not going to do that. I like what we have, I like you, and I’m not going to tell you I love you to make you happy.”

Angry and with watery eyes, Patrick broke free. This was unfair, unbelievable. He reached for the sweater he had cast aside an hour ago in a passionate frenzy. It was roughly yanked over his head in wanting to make a point. His socks were next, and he jumped to find his pants, his wobbly stance bordering on betraying him. He was leaving, and he didn’t think it necessary to explain that.

“This is exactly what I mean. You’re getting emotional and throwing a fit,” Pete sighed. Now it was his turn to be static, his back to the bedskirt.

Patrick was pissed. Hearing that crap made it worse, and he was on the verge of tearing his favorite pair of black pants. He didn’t bother to button or zip them and went to scoop his phone and house keys from the dresser. Thanks to Pete’s minimalism, there was nothing on the dresser for him to throw or purposefully smash to the floor. Regardless, he was determined to storm out, and, unfortunately, he jammed his pinky toe on the dresser’s corner when he wasn’t paying attention. He yelped and twisted on the spot to ensure that he wasn't approached.

“Don’t ask me if I’m okay!” Patrick immediately barked. He scowled, hating the concerned expression he saw, “And like I care about being ‘emotional’ and ‘throwing a fit’! And, and you, you’re such a..!”

“What am I?”

“That! Right there! You act like you’re better than me and I hate it!”

Pete shook off the verbal attacks. He had to calm this disaster of a scene, which was becoming more strained by the moment. He didn’t raise his volume, forehead wrinkling, “I’m not acting like I’m better than you, and I apologize if it seems that way. Honestly, I do. You’re mistaking my emotional maturity, that’s what’s happening. I’m not bragging about it, Patrick, it’s the truth.”

“Screw your emotional maturity.”

“I can’t help it. I’m older and more experienced than you, it’s simply there.”

With his pinky toe radiating less pain and the nausea subsiding, he used his remaining energy to scream, “I don’t care! I’m sick of this. I sneak around with you, fight with my friends because of you, break my hand, it’s, I fuckin’ blame you! It’s your fault! Feel guilty, bitch.”

Pete was quiet. 

“And for what?” Patrick snarled. He jabbed his finger at the older man, the flames of his rage too far gone to be doused by reason. “You don’t even love me! Not enough to humor me or tell me a little lie. Why give me hope, right!? I.. What do I have to _do_ , Pete? Be your age? Not be a boy?”

Gingerly, Pete used the bed to help him stand. Listening to Patrick was agonizing, the dread tangible against his ear drums. His legs were numbing - was he getting cold feet? For what? He parted his lips to speak and was stopped. 

“What’s the point of this!? What’re we doing?” Patrick’s face was brimming with a mixture of disgust and sorrow.

“We, We’re two people who found each other. Fate, or what have you, has placed us in these circumstances. I want this, I want you,” Pete articulated poorly. He was faltering and being chased, hunted for answers he didn’t have.

“I want it, too!”

“I’m not going to call us lovers, though. That’s not how I feel.”

“Oh, I know! We’re fuck buddies and I’m the idiot who’s in love!”

“Stop it, that’s not true.”

In Patrick’s hardened stare, the wateriness returned, “Don’t stand there and t-tell me what is and isn’t true. You don’t want me to have my own opinion, y-you don’t want me to think for myself!”

“Patrick, _please_.”

“If you don’t love me, and it sounds like you n-never will - ‘cause fuck me, right? - then I’m done. I’m out.”

Turning on his heel, Patrick exited the bedroom. There were footsteps following behind as he rubbed his face, and he threw an arm out to fend him off. That dick. He momentarily had his fingers caught and shook loose with an accelerated pace. He knew the house well and was able to navigate to the front door in defiance of his poor vision, blurred from the rubbing. His glasses weren’t much help, blotted and crooked with the whirlwind of this evening.

Pete was tailing him, those claws of guilt resurfacing in his chest. He came to a halt at the couch, regret cutting across his face, “I’m sorry, I, can’t you stay here and work this out with me?”

“Fuck you,” Patrick said, viciously lacing his sneakers.

“Let me drive you home.”

“FUCK. YOU.”

The front door was flung open, Patrick’s hand dramatically flying upward. He hopped onto the porch. Before he booked it down the street, he glanced over his shoulder, somewhat expecting to see a defeated, maybe pleading shell of a teacher.

Instead, he saw Pete. Standing there. Commiserating.

\---

Pete couldn’t sleep that night. Hours after Patrick had deserted him, he was awake in his kitchen. 

He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten past midnight. Or when he had been able to fit this many chips into his mouth without giving a shit. In a depressing sense, it was hilarious. 

In his pantry, to accompany the variety of sodas in the refrigerator, there was a stash of junk food that he had collected over the months for Patrick. His normally healthy trips to the grocery store were sidetracked by excursions into the snack aisles. Little Debbie fancy cakes, cheesy pretzels, and other calorically dense foods had been pushed aside to give him access to the family sized box of ranch Doritos that was filled with individually-wrapped packets. It was the savory punch he had been starving for. He was currently on his sixth one, crumbs shamelessly caught on his beard. He couldn’t even be troubled to pat his belly and judge how much it had bloated by.

Pete was stuck. Trapped in a purgatory where he knew exactly what he had done right and wrong. His untainted, holy deeds were matched with his vile, wicked ones.

He had texted Patrick several messages, and had actually called him at one point. Everything had gone unanswered. He was a single nervous breakdown from driving to the Stump residence and throwing pebbles at that second storey window. 

“No, no,” he muttered to himself. “Relax.”

Pete assumed that tonight had been Patrick’s first time. Whoever thought that losing your virginity was a big event must not know what it is have unrequited feelings. They were completely contrasting levels of vulnerability, the latter being more severe. 

The kid had never admitted that he was in love with somebody, and the rejection had overwhelmed him. Being a gay, chubby adolescent didn’t make it any easier. Society was already harsh on him, and Pete had been his solace. 

And he didn’t love him back.

There were too many pieces to their relationship that were preventing him. The puzzle forever plagued by jagged edges and misprinted colors. Unfinished.

The most scathing piece being their age difference, a constant intrusion on his own morality. It only managed to disappear when they physically lost themselves in one another. Once that spell broke, they would often stumble through conversations, casual and beyond, to reveal how at odds they could be by the lives they lead. 

Patrick’s status as his student, and in high school, no less, further kept him from wanting to declare love. People Patrick’s age usually didn’t stay ‘in love’ for longer than a season or two. Teenagers change at a lightning fast pace, and he was sincerely surprised that they had been together for this long. It was.. special. They defied the collective norm. Had both of them been naive teenagers, it would have been cloud nine. That youthfulness Patrick brought to him almost made it so.

Add in his unwillingness to be in a public, homosexual relationship with the attachment he still had for his ex girlfriend, and he was years away from being in love. He could concede to that. He had to.

Pete cared for Patrick, he hadn’t been lying about that. He watched over him in a way that a decent teacher would do, guiding him in the classroom. In hindsight, the relationship had started after he had fretted over the contents of a composition book. Perhaps he had innately been overly-protective. His subconscious had decided that before a move was made.

“He was mine,” he flinched.

Soon, that watchfulness unfurled into their intimacies, where he disapproved of Patrick sharing his naked flesh with anyone else. He had kept them monogamous because that’s how they were meant to be. Somehow, there was always a solidarity of infatuation. They had created a secret, unique bond from day one.

Its demise was his fault. There was no denying it.

Whether he should have been more clear on what was at the relationship’s core or had a fiercer handle on Patrick’s confession, he was left to deal with the fallout. Earlier, there had been such heartache and resentment, goosebumps lingered on his arms. It had been an unwelcome adrenaline rush. The universe, Patrick’s impulse, was dangling him high above a cosmic abyss. 

Pete wondered how much longer he would have his job. These perpetual metaphors weren't going to save him. Neither was Patrick. 


	20. Chapter 20

Patrick’s eighteenth birthday came and went. It was uneventful, not much excitement past being able to sleep in. Still. He knew that he was older, wiser, and all that jazz. Legal to anything with anyone, save for renting a car or purchasing alcohol. Not celebrating with a drink was a real shame, as he considered it to be what he wanted the most - getting wasted and not having to worry about the consequences. 

There were a handful of presents to be had, his jawline sore with false appreciation by the end of the day. He received gaudy cards from aunties he hadn’t seen in years, a bag of lemons from the Romanian lady next door, slaps on the back of the neck from his friends, and more freedom with the car from his parents. That last one was definitely his favorite, if he had to pick. 

He would typically practice on the weekends, driving with either his mother or father around the neighborhood. He had fun ‘accidentally’ tapping the breaks or honking the horn, a grin gleaming in the rearview mirror. They would periodically stop by a gas station or a Target, but nowhere with crazy parking situations. Driving was new to him, and he felt the most comfortable staying in the streets surrounding his house. 

Going past Pete’s house was when he went the fastest. They hadn’t spoken since that night. 

Patrick had deleted and blocked his number. In class, he chose to cut or was the leader out the door. There were days when he refused to lift his gaze during the entire fifty-five minute period. He wanted zero risk of being drawn in by a begging phone call or a hand on his shoulder asking him to stay after class. No fucking thank you. He was going to get over this eventually, with plenty of space and maybe a few months. He had to stay strong by avoiding him.

So, naturally, to hear that Pete had called his parents turned his brain into a unstable pulp of a thousand thoughts.

“What.. did he say?” Patrick asked his mother, leaning on the kitchen door frame. He had come home from school two hours ago, sealed in his bedroom with his earbuds on full blast. He hadn’t heard the landline ring.

Mrs. Stump took a stack of plates out of the top cabinet, replying, “He gave us a little update on how you’re doing in class.”

“Mom, what?”

Mrs. Stump turned and furrowed her brow at him, her mouth in a thin line of disappointment. She set the plates on the counter and opened the oven to remove the meatloaf.

Patrick hovered in place with his head slightly hunched, hoping to downplay his concern and magnify his innocence. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be that big of a deal, he had done much worse in the past. In the foyer leading out of the kitchen, the door to the bathroom opened and his father stepped into the picture. He sucked in a breath. 

“What’s this about you missing your English class?” Mr. Stump pounced on his son. He folded his hands over his chest and stood opposite of him, the meatloaf being sliced and served in the middle of their locked stances.

“I’ve barely missed it twice-ish,” Patrick lied.

“Your teacher said it was a dozen times this last month.”

“He, He’s got it out for me.”

Mr. Stump scoffed, “Really, Patrick? Did he also force you to not do your assignments or finish your quizzes? You’re failing the class, damnit!”

Patrick was powerless and he hated it. That fucking jerk was terrorizing him without any effort beyond dialing a phone number. What level of petty, listless nonsense was he expected to obediently suffer through? There was three weeks to go before the fourth quarter ended! Stressing over whether you were passing or failing was basically useless. He tugged at the rogue bangs that partially covered his line of sight, listening to his father prattle on about responsibility with his mother imploring them both to sit and eat. 

“Dad, I’ll get my grade up, okay?” he said, scratching the front of his scalp. He caught his mother’s chastising glare in his peripherals.

“Uh huh. We’ll make sure of that with no phone and no car,” Mr. Stump said gruffly.

“No, c’mon!”

“We’ll start today. Get that grade up and you can have your privileges back.”

Fuming, Patrick did a lap around the dinner table, his hand defensively in the pocket where he kept his cell phone. His mind was bouncing off the walls of his skull, arguing, “I need my phone. And I’m getting ready to take my final license test! Dad? Dad, this isn’t fair.”

Mr. Stump had said his piece. He was busy plating asparagus and a roll with his meatloaf while unbothered by his son’s inner turmoil.

“Why don’t you text your friends and let them know you’ll be out of contact? Hm, sweetie?” Mrs. Stump suggested. ‘Hurry, your father is prepared to toss that thing into oncoming traffic’ was conveyed through her unnecessarily chipper inflection.

Patrick opened his cell phone and saw his own tart features in the soft glow of the homescreen. Ugh. He tapped the keyboard’s envelope icon and wondered what he should say to his friends. Probably a rant on how he was legal and could handle school and that he didn’t need to be coddled when it came to the ridiculous unimportance that was his English class. His thumbs flexed and he scrolled to his settings page, then to the blocked numbers section. Just one.

He gave up the cell phone to his father’s outstretched hand, promising, “I’ll talk to them in person. And I’ll fix that grade.”

\---

The story of how Patrick’s parents were called, his privileges stolen, and how he vowed to improve in English class was retold to his friends the next day, finishing with a resounding, “Fuck Mr. Wentz.”

“.. Ha ha, yeah, ‘Fuck Mr. Wentz’. You’re not over that crush, you’d love for him to fuck you,” Liam mocked. He was utterly unsympathetic, toying with his own, uncompromised cell phone.

“Trick’s a virgin. He’s dying to get laid” Robbie cackled from within their triangle. 

“Except by you,” Liam said.

“I’m not a faggot.”

Patrick was made to stand there and take in the finer details of their bullshit. They were at the far end of the baseball field, obscured by a line of trees and able to see the main campus area. It was an adequate vantage point that allowed for mischievous behavior without leaving school grounds. A thrill that carried a low risk. It was well past the final bell of the day, although many of the staff members hadn’t finished trickling from the building. The administrative team was infamous for their late after hours, which kept them on their toes. With the year coming to a close, a suspension for any of the three would be devastating. Robbie and Liam wanted to walk for graduation, Patrick wanted his parents to not murder him. 

Liam’s cell phone began to buzz, and gave Robbie a smack as he answered it, “What? Why do I--? Jesus, fine. I know-- I will!”

“Where are you going? Don’t wanna share?” Patrick asked, watching Liam’s freckled nose crinkle in frustration after he had hung up.

“Keep outta my business. My old man didn’t show to babysit, so now I have to.”

“Sucks.”

They waved goodbye to Liam, who showed them both of his middle fingers and hollered that he would swipe beer for this weekend. His voice was crass and floated above them to mix with the gilded beams of late afternoon sunlight. Turning the corner of the crumbly concrete fence that divided the field from the city sidewalk, he vanished.

Robbie sunk to the ground. The dead grass beneath his jeans became a makeshift cushion, his hands in his jacket pockets. He didn’t want to go home, and he didn’t want to acknowledge Patrick sitting beside him.

“You know what’s worse than graduating?” Patrick asked, backpack in his lap.

“What?”

“Having to stay here.”

There was no response. Rather than admitting that he found it funny, Robbie fished an item out of his left jacket pocket. It was compact and black, perfectly non-threatening until he clicked the side of it. A blade sprang forth and was held at eye level.

Patrick was startled, his backpack held more securely to his lap, “A knife? Why?”

“ ‘Cause it’s cool. I bought it myself, too,” Robbie smirked. 

“Wow. You actually spend your own money, and it’s on a weapon.”

Patrick was permitted to hold it after he repeatedly swore that he wasn’t going to run off with it. He examined the blade that was around two inches in length, its silvery edges jagged in certain sections. It was ‘cool’, he supposed, but he would be lying if he claimed it didn’t intimidate him. He had never held this sort of knife, much less used one.

Robbie moved to retrieve it, proposing, “I’ll lend it to you for, mm, twenty bucks an hour? You can stab Mr. Wentz with it.”

“Nah,” Patrick said. He scratched at his stomach, his fingertips dwelling on the weight of the knife. “I don’t think I could do it. I’d probably hurt myself, anyway.”

Robbie clicked the blade into its original place and returned it to his jacket pocket. He noted the distance between them, four or five feet, and decided it would be a dubious amount of effort to tap Patrick’s head in agreement regarding his stupidity. He chose to ride the smooth, detached illusion with a laugh. Regrettably, he couldn’t avoid his eagerness, “Is he your type? Nice and smart?”

“Wha?” Patrick blinked, the change of topic setting in. He was going to follow up with ‘Why?’, and figured it wouldn’t end well. Robbie had this.. look on his face. He hesitated, “It’s hard to say. It’s not that he’s smart or nice, he, he’s handsome. I’m thinking with my dick, that’s all.”

“How is he handsome?”

“God, Robbie, it’s a dumb crush. I.. He’s got a good smile, a sexy voice.. The way he dresses is hot.”

“I get it, you pansy-ass.”

Annoyed, Patrick hoped that this interrogation had ended. He was in no mood to be teased. His friends weren’t explicitly supportive when it came to his sexuality. The name-calling and fake gag reflexes were manageable to an extent, and they had never excluded him in their activities. Plus, none of their frequent physical altercations, ranging from nuggies to fist fights, had been the result of homophobia. It wasn’t that bad. The one that came remotely close was when he had re-broken his hand on Robbie’s jaw. 

“Hey,” Patrick perked, scooting in. He was banking on them being alone to get a genuine reaction, “that time when I punched you with my broken hand _hurt_. I thought I was going to die! At least I got you to shut up.”

“Tch, you gave me a crazy bruise,” Robbie replied, the soles of his sneakers scuffing through a patch of dandelions. He was staring straight ahead at the school until he felt his wrist grabbed. He jolted to face the shorter boy.

“You deserved that bruise.”

“For what?”

“You got pissy at me for saying ‘no’ to you!”

Robbie’s wrist escaped and he bowed his head. That swish of copper hair kept him hidden, no biting comeback to be heard. 

Patrick chanced, “Was that a real offer? Did you..?”

Robbie nodded.

“Why couldn’t you have talked to me? In private, without being so mean about it?”

Robbie withered on the spot, matching the grass that he wished would grow and gobble him whole. He was scared, his skin felt weird and sensitive, he couldn’t understand why this was happening. Lost in the lull of the field and Patrick’s melody of questions, he said, “Sometimes you gotta be who people expect, Stump.”

\---

Patrick was standing outside room 710 on Monday morning. With no cell phone to cling to, he had pounded on the door with both fists. He waited for one minute. Two. Five.

He knew Pete was in there. The first bell of the day was set to ring soon, and that man was always prompt. On the fringes of his mind, there was a sick joke about Pete arriving early to get a piece of action. Their frisky antics prior to first period were vibrant in his memory, and were revived in his dreams with a regularity that he wouldn’t confess to. In comparison, he wanted to bury how anxious he had been to come in and discuss being tardy at the beginning of the year. That was a lifetime ago.

“Ridiculous, geez,” Patrick mumbled. It was almost eight, he couldn’t hang around here forever. He turned to walk to his class, the hallway bathed in a torrent of fluorescent lights. Signs announcing the upcoming yearbook sale were illuminated for him to ignore. 

He needed to talk. There was no one he could talk to about Pete except Pete. The call to his parents and dip in his grade had him upset, the lack of ‘I love you, too’ had him confused and melancholy. He couldn’t sort this out on his own, and could only assume that that a confrontation with the root of the problem was the best resource he had.

Quick footsteps sounded behind him.

Patrick had exactly half of a second to lift his head and see Pete darting past him. His dress shoes were tapping to create echos, his woodsy cologne wafting in the wake of his path. He spared Patrick less than a glimpse, a stack of papers tight in his grip.

“Mr. Wentz!” he exclaimed, dismayed by the flourishing gap of their separation. “Mr. Wentz! Wait!”

Nothing.

“I need to talk to you!”

Nothing.

“Mr. Wentz!”

The bell rang, and Pete paused his stride. There was a brief window where the hallway was empty, an instant before students swarmed the building. He spoke with a sublimely false conviction, commanding, “Get to class.”

Patrick gasped. The gentle noise dissipated into the chatter of his peers, and he was choked by the onslaught of other bodies around him, their blindness to his wounds unbearable. Fuck. An invisible match had been flicked into the barrel of gasoline that was his soul. Fuckfuckfuck. A senior elbowed him and pushed his backpack to slide crookedly on the left side. He shrugged it completely to the floor and set off at a sprint.

Shoving his way forward, he leapt and tackled Pete in a ferocious collision. His arms strangled the teacher by the throat and he slammed them down with his speed and weight and suddenness of the attack. The stack of papers fluttered outward in a warning to those nearby. Upon hitting the linoleum, they were subjected to being clipped by shuffling feet, the students providing a misshapen circle of space at the realization of what was happening. By then, the bystanders with a solid view, the scene was chaotic with cheers and horrified cries. 

Patrick was punching him. Initially, it was in the the back of the head because of his landing position. As his victim rolled, the blows were aimed at his face, ruthless in how those knuckles whacked at his unguarded flesh. Pete grimaced and kept his arms flat in a refusal to retaliate. He couldn’t. 

“What,” Patrick roared, “don’t wanna hit me? Don’t wanna, nngh, hurt me?”

“No!”

“ _Yes, you do_!”

Patrick’s fury launched him into a new round of punches, his labored panting an indicator of how much strength he was using. Flecked with blood, he struck what he could reach. His bones were screaming at every impact and deafened the remaining specks of logic. He remembered that he shouldn’t have his thumbs tucked when a particularly powerful punch cracked his joints and made him squirm. He yelled something inaudible and could taste the crowd becoming larger, louder. He despised every single one of them. Witnesses distracted him from how personal he could make this, though fed his ego to the brink of explosion.

His knees curled against Pete’s rib cage, challenging him to return fire. 

“Somebody,” Pete breathed, his world morphing into a dizzying mess. He listened to the shrieks and applause, dazed. A cough convulsed him, and his head flopped to the side. Another shot connected, “Argh! H-Help!”

“Hate you, fuckin’, piece of..!”

“Patrick!”

In sobbing the younger man’s name, Pete noticed that the assault weakened. He could tell that Patrick was being restrained, the punches now hasty kicks directed at his shins. There were two pairs of hands that had latched onto Patrick to dissolve the fight. The kicks were relentless while he sat up and shielded his face in fear of further damage. He had no idea how brutal his injuries were other than a missing tooth, tonguing the raw spot of his gums. He worried that he had swallowed it.

Held by a P.E. teacher and tall senior boy, Patrick’s violence was contained. He was wheezing and drenched in sweat, his hat having fallen to the floor. Frothing with saliva, he took in what he had done and was satisfied. A lengthy gash painted Pete’s right eyebrow, the tan skin dripping red. Blood had been drawn from his inner ears, as well, coating his neck. He estimated that there would be a decent amount of bruises with how swollen his cheeks and nose already were. He spat at him.

“Break it up, let’s go!”

“You’ll be counted late, get a move on!”

“Nothing to see here!”

Pete’s colleagues were huddling to protect him. They had emerged from their classrooms at the commotion, and were shooing students to their first period with an tentative understanding of what they were dealing with. They were disturbed to have found that this was no ordinary hallway brawl. An order was given for Patrick to be hauled to the principal’s office and they were poised to phone the police in addition to an ambulance. 

“Are you going to press charges?” Mr. Bremont asked, keeping Pete steady.

“No, I,” Pete said faintly, “I could never do that. He’s a kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> Done! Thanks for reading :D
> 
> I'll be writing something new soon..
> 
> **All characters are of consenting age. All portrayals are fictitious.


End file.
